Mysterious Akavir
by The Blackjack
Summary: In the early months of the Fourth Era, the Empire is betrayed and its most precious treasures looted. In response, three ships depart Tamriel to the remote continent of Akavir, the Dragon Land of the east. Recovering what was lost will be no easy feat: Cyrodiil's heroes must face down both the the continent's forgotten foes as well as the murky agendas of their unlikely allies...
1. The Novitiate

Master Caecus' meditations were disrupted by a knocking at his cell's door. Without moving, he called out into the darkness. "Come."

The door opened, letting light filter into his chamber. It was small and extremely sparse—the only furniture of note was a bedroll on one end and a basin on the other. The frigid air, unheated despite the midnight chill, clung to the hard stone walls and floor like a layer of ice. In the center of this, sitting cross-legged on the floor was Master Caecus. A voice from outside the room spoke hesitantly, one of a young woman. "Master," she said, "It is time for the reading."

Master Caecus slowly stood upright. He was clothed in a simple gray robe and his eyes were covered by a blindfold tied tightly over the upper portion of his face. He was an old man, perhaps fifty, but where the robe hung off his frame it was clear that he had the physique of a man half his age: he was in exceptionally good physical condition, and even the creases on his face seemed to stem more from intense concentration than senority. He turned around to face the young woman. "Then let us depart," he replied in his steady, commanding voice.

He strode out of his room with authority, the young woman falling in line right behind him. She was perhaps twenty and dressed in the same gray robe as her master. Her dark brown hair was cut short, and her green eyes never wavered from her master. Often, novitiates like herself would lead their blind and hobbling mentors down these corridors, but she never once had to. Master Caecus was exceptional in every definition of the word. Despite having his eyes hidden behind the blindfold, he moved with more purpose and grace than anyone else she had even seen. These halls, which were startling luxurious compared to the aesthetic cell where he had come from, posed no challenge to him. "Master," the girl began, her voice low and respectful, "Did I interrupt one of your visions?"

"Yes," replied Master Caecus, his voice firm yet nonjudgmental.

"I apologize," she said, "Was it the reoccurring one?"

"It is nothing to apologize for, and yes, it was."

Master Caecus had never elaborated on his reoccurring vision. He had always told her about his precognitions before, but this one in particular he had kept hidden. She never pried to determine what it was. If he saw fit to conceal it from her, it must have for the best: it would eventually be revealed to her, in due time. The two quieted for a moment before he spoke again. "Lucia, did you bring the copy of the _Courier?"_

Lucia nodded. "Of course, master." The only thing that Master Caecus could truly not do by himself was read. She had spent countless hours over the years reciting for him, from thick scientific treatises to ancient Dunmer poetry to the very newspaper she took out to look over and read for him. She cleared her throat and began to speak.

_SPECIAL EDITION!  
RECONSTRUCTION EFFORTS IN IMPERIAL CITY HALTED!_

_In a surprising announcement by High Chancellor Ocato, much of the reconstruction efforts to repair buildings damaged during the Oblivion Crisis and the subsequent traitor-general uprisings have been put on hold today until further notice._

"_I know that the damage suffered by Cyrodiil in the past two years is vast," said Ocato, "And I know that many families have had their property harmed in the subsequent attacks. Thus, it is with great reluctance that I issue this command, however, it is one that is necessary for the wellbeing of the Empire."_

_Curiously, this command was issued alongside a less-publicized move to more than triple the funding of the Imperial Legion. Sources at the Imperial Palace claimed that it is intended to break the stalemate that has marked combat against rogue partisans in the provinces, yet curiously very little of the appropriations apply to construction of forts outside of Cyrodiil. No legionary officers have yet offered comments on this issue._

_No senior officials in the Imperial Palace offered any further clarifications, although a spokesman of the Empire issued this own comment: "Despite the devastation still felt in the capital, it is important to remember that very little time has truely passed since the attack on the Imperial City. The capital shall be fully rebuilt before 4e 2, as is fitting the bright future that awaits our nation."_

Lucia stopped reading. Her master reflected on it momentarily. "A 'bright future'," he noted, "The _Courier _has been stressing how secure the empire is as of late."

Lucia folded the paper and put it away. "You don't think their optimism is warranted?"

"No." Once again, there was no elaboration. Lucia did not ask for any.

They continued on their way. Silence was not unusual between the pair: Master Caecus had always insisted that one spoke only if they had something worth saying. However, Lucia clearly wasn't comfortable, frowning deeply and biting at her lip. She remained quiet as they walked through the halls, passing large, golden-gilded doors and armored royal guards. An intersection was coming up ahead, with one large stairwell leading upwards to the right, and the hall continuing straight ahead. At this point, Lucia knew that she had to speak. "Master," she said, her voice as respectful as it had been before, but now with a hint of urgency, "Aren't you nervous?"

Master Caecus stopped and turned to face Lucia. "No."

Lucia looked up at him. By virtue of his hidden eyes, his jaw line was his most expressive feature. It was as firm and unemotional as it always was. He really was as calm as though this were any normal day. "But, master…" she continued with a hushed voice, "This is your last reading, isn't it?"

"It is," replied her master, "But that is nothing to be nervous over. This is more about you and your own fear, isn't it Lucia?"

Lucia looked away, frowning. Master Caecus placed a strong hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "Lucia, I want you to know this. Relationships between people are always changing. Every day we chose new actions for ourselves and make decisions that ripple out and touch all who we know. And also remember, there was once a time that I did not know you and you did not know me, but we did not long for what we did not have. This is my last reading, true. And after this, I will retire. Despite all that, there is a bond between us that will not dissolve simply due to geographical distance, is there not?"

Lucia returned her eyes to him. "Yes, master."

"Thus, we shall not fear what lies in the future. Besides, while I am at the brink of my final reading, you are about to undergo your first reading, correct? You shall soon be a priestess yourself. You no longer need me to guide you," Master Caecus concluded.

"But there's still so much I don't know!" Lucia interjected passionately, but before she could continue, her master spoke, the weight of his own words drowning out her own.

"Believe it or not, Lucia, I was once in your position myself. I excelled, as shall you."

With that, he offered her one of his rare smiles, breaking through the rigidity and gravity of his normally severe face. Lucia almost blushed at the compliment, and her heart swelled with pride. "I won't let you down, master."

"Very good," he said, turning towards the stairs. "I will go upstairs and retrieve the scrolls. I wish for you to go report to the high chancellor. Await my arrival there."

Lucia gave him a surprised frown. "Don't you need assistance?"

"I know the library better than any other room in the world," said Master Caecus, "And I would like to go there alone tonight… For old time's sake."

His pupil nodded. "Okay. I'll go on ahead."

The master turned and walked up the stairway. Lucia watched him vanish out of her sight. Soon, he would leave forever. She wished to express to him how much his tutelage and guidance meant to her but had no idea how to properly vocalize it: he was not an emotional man by any means. It was hard to believe that after all of his painstaking, exemplary work on behalf of the empire, he would be put out to pasture in some frozen, forgotten monastery. Master Caecus had always taught her that this fate was an honor, but it was one of the few of his lessons that never took to her.

She was dallying. Lucia continued down the hallway, trying to keep her mind off her master's imminent departure. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. "Sweet Dibella, Lady of Love," she whispered, "Order my steps to match your perfect word."

She felt relief course over her. No matter how difficult things became for her, the Nine were always there, always at her side. She took great solace in their sacred presence: she could feel them around her, watching down and guiding her to live a life free of sin and bereft of temptation. They must've had a hand in her finding such a mentor as Master Caecus. "Mara, Mother Mild," she said again, her mouth barely able to contain a burgeoning smile, "Bless my heart to love those as you love all your children."

Solace and salvation. Even if Master Caecus were to leave, this cornerstone of her life never would. "Kynareth, Mistress of Breezes," she finished, cheeks warm from the pleasure, "Fill me with life to serve your holy purposes…!"

Lucia opened her eyes. She was nearly at the conference chamber. She took a moment to compose herself and regain a solemn air after the joy she had just experienced: she was Master Caecus' representative, and had to convey his presence as such. She stopped in front of the massive doors, took a deep breath in, and opened them wide.

There were only a few people in the room. There were, of course, several royal guards who looked her over warily, but didn't leave their posts. She couldn't help but notice Archprelate Claudius at one end. She was nervous to be in front of the leader of her order, but was determined to appear relaxed all the same. Master Caecus always acted in the same manner to everyone he met, be they emperor or beggar. She was determined to follow in his example and turned her attention to the other imposing man in the room, High Chancellor Ocato, who seemed relieved to see her. She straightened her posture. "Prelate Caecus shall arrive with the Elder Scrolls shortly," she said, in a voice so dispassionate that it would've made her master proud.

Her announcement caused some of Ocato's relief to vanish. "He's still not here? He should've been here a half-hour ago."

Lucia stepped to the side and put her hands behind her back, clearly not intending to speak any more. Ocato looked to Archprelate Claudius. "Perhaps we should call for another priest?"

"No," replied the high prelate, "Believe me, Chancellor, I have trained dozens of Moth Priests in my time. Of all of them I have worked with, Caecus is by far the most accurate and clear interpreter we've had."

A tinge of red threatened to blush on Lucia's cheeks. She fought it down. She loved to hear her master praised so, but needed to be above showing emotion. Ocato accepted the archprelate's answer, but wasn't finished with this line of inquiry. "This is Caecus' final reading, correct? You're sure that it will be accurate? This is a matter of extreme importance?"

The archprelate nodded to Ocato. "I know you fear the dark shadow from the east, but trust me that I feel that this reading will be Prelate Caecus' swan song."

Lucia remained calm, but couldn't help but feel curious. Master Caecus had insisted that she not pay attention to the phenomenally classified discussions she was privy to as a Moth Priest, but there was something about learning such fascinating secrets that she found alluring. The chancellor, for his part, accepted Archprelate Claudius' answer.

Minutes passed.

Lucia's mind began to turn. Master Caecus shouldn't be taking this long to deliver the scrolls. In fact, she couldn't remember him being late to anything at all. Her outward expression remained one of pure neutrality, but she couldn't help but become nervous. Had he become anxious over his final reading? Was he all right? Her concerns were also shared by Ocato, who was much more visible in his frustration. "Where is that Caecus?" he thought aloud.

The doors to the conference chamber flew open. A royal guard ran in, alert and startled. Everyone in the room noticed his arrival with a shock, Lucia included. He addressed the chancellor. "My lord, we've spotted something to the east, approaching rapidly."

Ocato scowled. "You saw 'something'? Come, man, be more descriptive!"

"Sire, we're not exactly sure what it is. What we do know is that it's large and that it's flying."

"Flying?" Ocato said in disbelief.

"Yes, flying. At this rate, it'll reach the Imperial Palace within minutes."

"Minutes…" Ocato whispered. Something clicked in this mind. "The Elder Scrolls," he said with a newfound urgency.

He burst from the room, moving quickly into the hallway, gesturing for some of the guards to follow him. Lucia, in all of this, was confused. Something flying? It made no sense. There was no time to think, though. She left the room, following Ocato. The high chancellor believed that there was something in the works involving the Elder Scrolls. Wherever he was going, Master Caecus would be there. Liquid fear began to course through Lucia's veins—what if this flying monster had come for the Elder Scrolls? What if Master Caecus were in danger? What was supposed to be a peaceful farewell to her master very well might turn into tragedy.

Ocato stormed through the halls as fast as he could. Lucia knew this path. It would lead them to the largest balcony on the Imperial Palace, one high above the city. Down the hallway, she could make out noises that she had never heard before. There was a clatter of some sort of metal, the hiss of steam and some sort of gargled scream. Ocato moved even faster at that, the royal guard in tow. Lucia doubled her pace to get as close to the doorway as she could. Ocato arrived first and threw the door at the end of the hallway open to the midnight sky. Lucia gasped.

At one end of the large, elaborate balcony was a construction that she had never seen the likes of: it was a large, bronze ship floating in mid air. Giant fan blades shredded the night's stillness, shooting out wind to keep the massive contraption afloat. The fires of Oblivion smoldered in its portholes, fueling the machine through unspeakable magics that Lucia didn't even want to fathom. It was sleekly polished, however, looking nothing like a rough Dwemer machine. Indeed, if anything, it seemed extremely modern, as though it were made in the last year. Its massive gangplank had smashed into the palace, allowing a thin bridge to and from the airship. This was all impossible, though—no one had been able to make a stable airship, let alone something as well-crafted and powerful as this. Before she could make out anything else about the machine, her eyes caught sight of something infinitely more important. Master Caecus.

He stood in the middle of the balcony, facing the airship. He was surrounded by fallen royal guards, unmoving at his feet. Tucked under his arm were five Elder Scrolls, their gold bindings glimmering in the infernal light given off by the airship. Ocato reacted first. "Caecus!" he screamed over the howl of the airship's fans, "What are you doing!"

Master Caecus slowly turned his head to face Ocato. His eyes were still bound behind his blindfold. "I ask you to say back, High Chancellor," he said, his voice calm and even, "There has been enough violence this evening, and I am loath to reengage any guards."

"Are you mad!" Ocato snapped, "Those are the Elder Scrolls! This is treason!"

Caecus did not respond. Lucia kept watching him. What was he thinking! How she wished she knew! If only she could see past his blindfold into his eyes, and peer into his soul! But that was impossible: all she could see was his expression, as rigid and dignified as it had ever been. It was infuriating for the very fact that it was so common of him—so full of belief, so full of purpose. Lucia tried to believe that this was all some horrible misunderstanding, but as she did, Master Caecus turned away from her. He walked forward, to the airship's gangplank.

The two guards at Ocato's side burst forward suddenly, not waiting for a command to charge. Both were fixated on recovering the Elder Scrolls at all costs. Master Caecus stopped walking and relaxed his muscles. Ocato was about to yell an order, but by the time he had opened his mouth, it was already over.

So swift it was that Ocato's eyes couldn't follow the action. Lucia, however, had trained under Master Caecus enough to be able to make sense of what happened. It was a single, graceful strike; almost beautiful if not for being so devastating. As soon as the guard got within striking range, Master Caecus turned swiftly. His leg shot out from his side, flying up into the air and then soaring down to hit his opponent in the underarm, one of the few places that lacked armor. Lucia recognized it instantly: the Willow Strike, a difficult technique used by practitioners of the Way of the Peaceful Fist. To use it so quickly was a feat in and of itself—to strike such a small target while blindfolded was simply unheard of.

The guardsman was thrown off his feet, colliding into his partner. The two collapsed into a pile of tangled limbs, giving their opponent the time he needed to casually turn around and continue on his way. Master Caecus stepped forward onto the gangplank, which was immediately drawn back into the airship. He stood at the railing and moved his head down, back in the direction Lucia was. She looked up, her mouth open and her body trembling. "Master Caecus…" she whispered, holding out her arm to the vessel. She found strength inside her and ran to the edge of the balcony. "_Master Caecus!" _she called out, reaching out for him.

His face was unmoving. He turned away from her and walked into the ship. The great airship slowly turned around, its huge, thundering blades bringing it to face the opposite direction of the tower. At that, it began to move. Fire spouted from it as it shot forward, moving swiftly through the night's sky. Lucia's arm trembled as she watched it move farther away and grow smaller and smaller. Ocato cursed. Master Caecus, Prelate of the Order of Ancestor Moths, had betrayed them, delivering unto the enemy five Elder Scrolls along with immeasurable amounts of state secrets. Lucia watched him vanish over the horizon as burning tears welled in her eyes.

Master Caecus had departed. He had gone to the east.

To Akavir.


	2. The Battlemage

The heavy, uncomfortable silence of the room was broken only by the long, belabored tocks of an ancient grandfather clock and the occasional rustling of parchment. Two people were seated at a desk in the middle of the room, neither one speaking a word. One was a strict looking Altmer woman dressed in the robes of a high ranking Mage's Guild member, looking over a large stack of papers. She had a wry, humorless expression and was reading the forms with a critical eye. The other person was a young Imperial man, also dressed in Mage's Guild robes, but of a much lower rank. He was an average looking boy, with mid-length brown hair and an exceptionally nervous expression on his face as he watched the Altmer finish the reading. She flipped it back to its first page. "Hanus," she began, reading the name on the front of it, "Roliand."

"Yes," said Roliand, sitting up straight in his chair.

She continued to read. "Age twenty four. Born in the village of Pell's Gate and received basic training as a battlemage," she looked up from the packet, her eyes lacking in any form of human emotion, "You were rejected by the College of Battlemages, were you not?"

Roliand felt blood rush to his cheeks in embarrassment. "Yes, ma'am," he managed.

The Altmer's eye rolled back to the reading. "Joined the Mage's Guild four years ago. Attained the rank of evoker two years ago. This will be your fourth attempt at attaining the rank of conjurer, am I correct?"

Once again, Roliand fought off the embarrassment. "Yes, ma'am."

She returned to her reading. Her features remained unreadable, but her tone warmed if only to a tiny degree. "Well, Mr. Hanus, regarding several parts your application, I have to admit that it's strong. You have a good amount of practical experience as well as an impressive collection of accomplished field work. You relied a little more on the axe than I'd like, however, you've still demonstrated your ability to wield magic on the level we expect in a conjurer."

Roliand felt a tinge of hope flare up within his chest. He leaned forward despite himself. The Altmer looked up from his application, as dour as always. "Except…"

His heart sank into his stomach as he sank into his chair. He had heard this all before. "While you've demonstrated your ability to put the teachings of the Mage's Guild into practice, you've yet to show that you actually understand the theory behind it. I looked over the research you provided on Ayleid ruins. To be frank, it is sloppy. Very, very sloppy. This is something I wouldn't expect from an evoker, let alone a conjurer."

She set the packet down. Roliand had already tuned the entire conversation out. This all ultimately meant one thing. Another six months wasted. The Altmer, however, was not yet finished talking. "Mr. Hanus," she said, "Do you want to know what your problem is?"

"Yes, ma'am," Roliand sighed.

She leaned forward and looked him in the eyes. "You never seem to let the evidence speak for itself. You have all the pieces you need to come to a conclusion, but rather than letting it all run its logical course, you make your own ending point in your mind and force the data to go there. Had you just detached your consciousness from that preconception, you very well might've come to an acceptable conclusion. You're not stupid, Roliand, but you're not reading into the evidence in a proper manner."

"Yes ma'am," replied Roliand dully.

The Altmer leaned back. "And stop saying 'Yes ma'am'. Variation in your responses reveals mental acumen and is something highly valued within the Mage's Guild," she concluded, picking up another pile of papers, "Roliand Hanus, your application for the rank of conjurer is hereby denied. You are dismissed."

Roliand slowly got up from his seat. Without saying another word, he exited the room and entered the hallway of the Arcane University. Standing outside the door was a Breton lady of about the same age as he was. She looked up at him expectantly. "Well?"

He glanced over at her. His expression was enough to show his failure, and a frown appeared on the Breton's face as well. "_Again_?" she said in exasperation, "Oh, Roliand, I'm so sorry. How could they deny you again?"

"Sloppy research, she said," began Roliand, who started to walk down the hall. "She claimed that it wasn't even up to par for an evoker. And after I spent all those hours in the university, to think that they all amounted to nothing."

The Breton frowned. "It didn't amount to nothing, you know. You at least got practice out of it."

"That's cold comfort with the knowledge that I've been passed over for promotion _again," _Roliand replied. "And to watch stupid codgers who couldn't manage themselves in a fight climb the ladder while I'm consigned to cleaning up experiments for the rest of my life."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," said his companion, "You're still very young."

He came to a stop in the hallway and put his hand over his face. "I know, it's just… I was so certain that I was going to get it this time," he sighed, "I worked so hard for it, I sent out a letter back home saying how I felt as though my career was going to take off, and… It's just really bitter, you know?" he said, his voice so heavy with disappointment it could barely keep itself off the ground.

The Breton looked him over with a concerned expression. "Oh, Roliand, don't get yourself down. There'll be more opportunities—"

"How many times can I fail before I'm written off as a joke?" cut in Roliand. "If this keeps up, they'll probably send me out of the Academy to some provincial branch. Hell, they might do that now."

Before his friend could respond, the two heard a loud voice call out down the hall. "Evoker Hanus."

Roliand looked up to see none other than Raminus Polus, Master-Wizard and member of the Council of Mages, looking directly at him. Never before had anyone of this rank ever taken an interest in him. "Follow me," the Master-Wizard said curtly, gesturing for Roliand to come with him.

The evoker gave a surprised glance to his friend, who offered an equally clueless look, before walking towards Polus. The Master-Wizard moved quickly through the halls to the point that the two of them were making a bit of a scene. Roliand was very curious as to what could warrant such a rush, but decided against asking his superior. Polus looked uncharacteristically concerned: almost as though he himself was confused. They took a right and stood before a finely crafted door. Roliand knew what lay beyond—this was a meeting room used by the Council of Mages to hold exceptionally important visitors, often royalty or venerated scholars. Roliand had never been allowed in the room before, and neither had anyone he knew. Polus took out an exquisite key from his pouch and slid it in the door. There was a click, and it swung open. The Master-Wizard entered the room, and Roliand followed.

The room was as luxurious as Roliand could've imagined. The furniture had an ebony base, finely worked to gleam in the magical lighting. Masterpieces clung to the rare portions of the walls not taken up by bookshelves, showing off the rarest and most valuable tomes Roliand had seen outside the Imperial Library. Two people were waiting for them here, both Dark Elves. The first was an old man, older than Roliand had ever seen. His hair and beard had gone snow-white with age, and his eyes betrayed a deep wisdom that the young Imperial could only guess at. He was clad in what looked like a full set of Daedric armor, but that had to be impossible: you could buy a small country for how much that would cost. Seated at his side was a far younger woman. She actually looked a great deal like the man seated next to her (a daughter, perhaps) and had a sort of severe beauty that was evident even from the neutral expression on her face. She was dressed in the odd chitin-armor that the Dark Elves loved so much and was watching Roliand expectantly. Master-Wizard Polus gestured to Roliand. "Lord Fyr, is this the man you had asked for?"

A slow, satisfied smile spread over the Dunmer's face. "He is indeed. Come, Hanus, sit down."

Roliand took a seat across from the man, as did Master-Wizard Polus. The Dunmer continued to speak. "We should get to business. My name is Divayth Fyr. Perhaps you heard of me?"

Roliand was barely able to contain a shock of surprise. He had, of course, heard _of_ Divayth Fyr, the reclusive four-thousand year old Psijic who was among the highest esteemed scholars in the world, but he had never once entertained the fantasy that he would ever meet such a man. Divayth Fyr smiled at Roliand's shock. "You know me? Good. Less introductions that way. The girl to my left is my daughter, Beyte. Quite a looker, isn't she?"

Beyte nodded her head to Roliand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Divayth Fyr continued as swift as before, either not noticing Roliand's confusion or simply not caring about it. "And since I already know all about you, Hanus, we can cut to the point and talk about why you're here. We've got business, you and I."

"M-Me?" Roliand stuttered, pointing at himself.

"Yes, you," replied Divayth Fyr, "I asked for you personally. This is a very important matter, so play close attention. Here's the context. Two weeks ago I received an unusual visitor at my home: an Akaviri. Claimed she was a Kamal Ice-Devil, but I've met Kamal in my day, and she definitely wasn't one. I offered my hospitality regardless and sat down and spoke with her. She had a request, like most visitors to Tel Fyr, but it was as clear and straightforward I've ever received. She was soliciting my assistance in the upcoming Akaviri invasion of Tamriel."

This time, Roliand couldn't contain his surprise. "Invasion!?" he repeated.

Beyte frowned slightly. "Don't you know?"

Polus coughed. "The Elder Council has decided to not reveal the imminent war to the public just yet. The already war-weary populace isn't going to be extremely receiving of what could be a years-long conflict with our ancient enemy."

"Indeed," responded Divayth Fyr. "Moving right along, I told the Akaviri representative that I wanted no part in the coming conflict on either side. It was my hope that she would agree to these terms and, at the time, she did. I offered her lodgings for the night and returned to my research. When I awoke the next morning I found that she had departed. However, she had left with a terrible cost."

Divayth Fyr's face grew serious. "Before leaving, she was able to kill many of my guards, terribly wound my eldest daughter, and kidnap my youngest girl, Uupse. I believe that Uupse has been taken, along with the representative, to Akavir. You, Hanus, are going to go there and get her back to me."

Roliand had no immediate response. His mouth opened as he sat unable to think of anything to say. Divayth Fyr waited patiently, watching the young battlemage try to make sense of this situation. As the seconds passed on, Roliand spoke, slowly and uncertainly. "Lord Fyr, I… I don't know if I'm the right man for the job. I don't really have any qualifications for this sort of work."

"You do, Hanus," replied Divayth Fyr, "Trust me. You yourself might not know exactly why, but it'll become very clear to you when you've set foot on Akaviri soil. In a way, you're the only man who can get this job done."

Raminus Polus looked to Roliand in turn. "In exchange for accepting this difficult mission, the Council of Mages is ready to offer you a three-rank promotion upon your successful return."

Once again, Roliand could hardly fathom this meeting. A _three-rank _promotion? That was unheard of! Not even the current Archmage ever received a three-rank promotion. Working that high normally took years of hard effort. This was no time to look a gift horse in the mouth. He quickly nodded his head to Polus, then to Divayth Fyr. "Three…? Yeah!" he said with a burst of enthusiasm, "I can do this! You need your daughter rescued, I'm your man!"

"Such bravado!" said Divayth Fyr, "I'm glad you accepted. You won't need to go alone; I've already instructed Beyte to accompany you. She's a useful girl to have around, as you'll soon see."

Beyte Fyr gave Roliand another polite nod. "I'm very much looking forward to working with you."

Polus spoke next. "We'll give you a more detailed debriefing later tonight. You are dismissed, evoker, but not a word of this to anyone, understand?"

"Yes sir!" said Roliand, standing up. He bowed once to Divayth Fyr, then once to Polus, and then once more to Lord Fyr for good measure. Without wasting any more time, he turned around and left the room, barely containing a laugh. Polus frowned as he heard the door shut and looked back to the Dunmer. "Lord Fyr, as I've said, Hanus is callow and untested. I do not doubt that this assignment is of the utmost importance, but I don't see why you won't let us assign—"

Divayth Fyr waved his hand, silencing the Master-Wizard. "I appreciate the sentiment, but as I've said, Hanus is the only man for the job. He's our last hope. Beyte will keep him out of trouble: won't you, dear?"

"Yes, Lord Fyr," responded Beyte.

"You see? Have a little confidence in your students, Raminus," said Divayth Fyr, standing upright, "Roliand Hanus has a destiny greater than you can possibly know."

"An extraordinary fate?" Polus inquired with a raised brow, "I take it you know all about it?"

Divayth Fyr smiled and shook his head. "The fact that I don't makes him so extraordinary. Goodbye, Raminus."

With that, the millennia-old lord of Tel Fyr walked towards the door, opened it, and stepped through. The door closed and locked behind him.


	3. The Lady

The sun struggled to shine through the mist-mantled hills of Anticlere. In these rough, uncharted evergreen forests the fog never ceased to cover the ground, leaving the unwelcoming wilderness still mostly unexplored. It was said that wereboars prowled long forgotten deer-trails, attacking travelers foolish enough to stray from the major roads. The Knights of the Flame always replied that such old wives' tales were nonsense used to scare naughty children, but every so often mysterious howling from the woods threatens to proved them wrong. Perhaps the people would learn the truth sooner rather than later—today woodcutters prowled the edge of the ancient forests, starting to tame the endless viridian expanse.

Such an effort was quintessentially Anitclerian—this was a nation both very old and steeped in tradition, yet swiftly changing its ways. This was the Fourth Era, after all: a country that could not change with the times would surely be left behind.

A young lady put her hand to the windowpane that separated the primordial expanse from the comfort of her manor. The cool, wispy tendrils of mist seemed as far from her library as the shrouded sun. Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, housing leather-bound books on hundreds of subjects. The window's glass was cold to the touch. She leaned forward and rested her head against it.

She was a Breton, still in the prime of her life. Her features were normal, but she knew how to use cosmetics to emphasis them to a high level of artificial beauty. She closed her brown eyes and sighed softly, closing a book she held with her free hand. The room was perfectly silent, as shut off from the world as it could possibly be. The lady had spent countless hours here and had come to love the smell of the library, of old books and polished wood.

That was a long time ago.

She slid her hand off the windowpane. It hung limply at her side.

"Well look at that," said a voice behind her, "How the Rose of Anticlere droops."

She turned around suddenly and looked to the door. It was open, and leaning against the doorframe was a young man, slightly older than she was. He was indeed handsome, with short blond hair and a confident smile on his face. He was clad in the brilliant red armor of the Knights of the Flame, which gleamed even in the dark room. The lady took a moment to compose herself after the moment of shock. "Sir Lancerow," she greeted, her voice bereft of both affection and disdain.

Lancerow bowed. "My Lady Flyte."

Lady Flyte resumed a regal composure as she sat in a nearby chair. "Is there a specific reason you've come?" she asked.

"Come now, my lady," replied Lancerow, standing up straight, "You know that you're not supposed to be without escort."

The lady frowned. "I'm merely reading. I don't think I need a bodyguard in this library."

"Your parents think differently," replied Lancerow, "And would be quite cross with you if they found out how you got out of my sight."

Lady Flyte's expression thinned. "It's quite uncomfortable to be shadowed wherever I go, especially in my own home."

Lancerow kept the same self-assured smile on his face. "Well, my lady, perhaps you should've thought about that before all your gallivanting about last year, hmm?"

The details of Lady Lynette Flyte's actions in 3e 434 had never been clear to anyone—all that was known is that she had played an important role in the current political status quo. There naturally were all sorts of rumors floating about, ranging from how she had spent the night unchaperoned in the homes of commoners to how she had been attacked by vicious assassins. There was some truth to the rumors: a truth that the lady had spent the last two months quashing. After this hectic year, her parents had both agreed that she was not to be without armed guard: perhaps the only decision the two had ever determined in concordance.

Seeing that Lady Flyte's mood hadn't improved, Lancerow laughed good-naturedly. "Come now, surely I'm not that bad company, am I?"

She tilted her head upwards. "You are being extremely familiar, Sir Lancerow."

"My apologies," the knight said, still upbeat, "Truth be told, I've come here to tell you that dinner is to be served, and that your lord father and mother wish for your presence."

Lynette Flyte withheld a groan and set her book down. "You could've told me that from the start."

Lancerow didn't reply, and the lady left the room. She could hear him follow behind her, which caused her some vexation. Unfortunately, there was little that could be done: she could not disobey her parents' will, so as much as she disliked this arrangement, it was here to stay.

The corridors, like the library, were dark and moody. This manor, which was the namesake of the nation of Anticlere, was older than Lady Flyte could reckon. For generations upon generations it stood unchanged against the tides of history, and only in recent years had it begun to conform to the times. Anticlere Manor was, quite literally, a house divided. The area she was in currently, the west wing, belonged to her father, Lord Auberon Flyte. It was regal, austere, and humorless, capable of sucking joy out of any heart so foolish enough to introduce it to these proud halls. Her mother, Lady Doryanna, lived in the east wing. It was gaudy, bright, and pretentious, representing everything the Flyte family had stood against for centuries.

Not even Anticlere Manor could resist the unstoppable march of time.

Lady Flyte turned the corner to see another knight in the corridors, actively searching for something about the hallways. He was about as different from Lancerow as possible: he was a mountain of a man who could easily be mistaken for a Nord, bald, and had grim, mirthless expression on his face. Upon seeing the lady, he moved forward, bowing. "Forgive my absence, my lady," he said in a deep, respectful baritone, "I was told that you would be in your room."

Lancerow gave the man a bemused smirk. "So glad to see you join us, Sir Rudvich. I was worried that you had gotten lost."

Rudvich was not amused. "Watch your tone with me, boy."

Far from intimidated, Lancerow laughed. "Such language in front of the Lady Flyte!"

The elder knight bowed his head to Lady Flyte, who tried her hardest to keep her face peaceful. Her new complement of guards could bicker like children sometimes: she had often asked to get replacements, but as abrasive as the two were, both were unquestionably skilled. The Knights of the Flame were an elite unit, and Lancerow and Rudvich were among the best. She looked at her guardians before gesturing down the hallway. "Shall we…?"

"Yes, my lady," the two said in unison. Lady Flyte, to her credit, didn't express her frustration. As different as the two could be, she disliked it the most when they were so similar.

* * *

Some people said that the only thing keeping Auberon Flyte alive was spite for his wife. He looked as though he might as well be dead—his dry skin was stretched over his face so thin that his head might as well have been a skull. His gray hair had almost completely left him, with only a few rogue strands clinging to his dry, lifeless scalp. Despite looking mostly like a cadaver, he still had strong, powerful eyes—that quality had never left him in these midnight years. He had the penetrating stare of a monarch, even to this day. He looked to his daughter, seated at the middle of the table. "How good it is for you to join us, Lynette. I have been waiting a long time for us to be able to dine together as a family," he said, his voice sounding like cascading granite.

"I thank you, father," replied Lady Lynette demurely.

The great hall of Anticlere Manor was as divided as the family which inhabited it. A long, sprawling table took up a majority of the room and at one head of it sat Auberon Flyte. Sitting near him were his advisers: mostly men as aged as was, wrinkled and liverspotted, rich in wisdom but not in energy. Rudvich was among them and seemingly the youngest of the bunch: Lady Lynette figured that this was the only group in which the knight would be seen as a youngster. Across the table from Auberon, seated at the other end of the arrangement, was his wife, the Lady Doryanna. Unlike her husband, Lady Doryanna had aged exceptionally well: her dress hung snuggly on her curves, clearly designed to accentuate her sensual frame. Her face usually had a dusky expression on it, never showing the expansive, ever-turning mind that churned beneath her physical endowments. She was surrounded by young, handsome courtiers, Lancerow included. Lady Doryanna glanced to her daughter, who sat in the middle of the table, equidistant from both of her parents. "Yes, Lyn," she said, her voice like poisoned honey, "We missed you ever so much."

"And I you, mother," said Lady Lynette.

Their meal was splendid, but not as luxurious as Anticlere had enjoyed in ages passed. There was once a time when this state was a sovereign nation and Auberon Flyte had been king. Anticlere was one of many powerful states in the Iliac Bay, each one competing in a cut-throat political battle to attain glory and prestige. This changed with the Warp in the West. Daggerfall's armies had overrun the country, annexing the once proud land into a mere province, and delegating Auberon's role to that of a viscount. Every patriotic citizen of Anticlere shared in the dream of independence, but it was just that—a dream, nothing more.

A gust of wind blew through the room, causing Lady Lynette to shiver. Auberon sat, unmoving. "I take it that the current administration is indebted to our household?"

"Yes, father," said Lady Lynette, staring at her plate.

"How wonderful!" crooned the Lady Doryanna, "To think that the Empire owes House Flyte! Isn't it wonderful?" she asked to her courtiers, the vast majority of whom immediately voiced their agreement. Lancerow, however, said nothing and silently watched from his chair, always smiling.

Having said her piece, Lady Doryanna looked across the table to her husband and looked him in the eyes. Auberon returned the gaze. They did this sometimes, dropping everything during the middle of a conversation to engage in some battle of the wills. Lady Lynette picked up her fork and began to eat. The two of them had despised each other for as long as she could remember, and went about these little games for her entire life. Sometimes it didn't bother her, although recently she had begun to feel more and more uncomfortable.

The lord of the manor turned his attention to his daughter. "Things have changed in your absence, Lynette. You, too, have changed. You've grown into a fine woman."

"I thank you, lord father," replied Lady Lynette, not looking up.

The Lady Doryanna spoke next, twirling a strand of raven hair. "And, seeing as though you've blossomed into womanhood, it's high time that you be wed."

Lady Lynette looked at her plate dully for a second before the words sunk in. Her head snapped up towards her mother, her formerly apathetic eyes extremely alert. "I beg your pardon?"

"Marriage, Lyn," continued Lady Doryanna, "Your birthday is coming up soon, isn't it? You'll be twenty-two. You've been unwed for far too long, and your maidenhood does nothing to benefit our family. We've been speaking to the Baron of Glenpoint—he's very interested in you, Lyn."

"… The baron?" Lynette managed.

"Yes," interrupted Auberon, "The baron. He is a rich and powerful man: the very sort we want in allegiance to House Flyte. You will marry him, Lynette."

"I…" Lynette began, before looking down to her plate. She was at a loss for words. "… I..."

Lady Lynette said nothing. Auberon opened his mouth to begin speaking again, but before he could, the doors to the great hall flew open. Entering the room, to the surprise of everyone, was an imperial messenger, presumably from the Imperial City. The lord of the manor looked at the courier in shock, unaware of what could possibly demand a message from the royal palace itself. The newcomer looked about the table and took out a scroll. "Lynette Flyte?" he called out over the great hall.

Lynette stood, forgetting decorum. "Yes?"

The messenger strode over and handed the parchment to her. "By order of High Chancellor Ocato, you have been summoned to the Imperial City."

"Summoned?" she repeated.

"Yes. Please depart as soon as you are ready," was the messenger's quick reply.

Lynette was only vaguely aware of her surroundings. Out of the corners of her eyes she could make out movement around the table—Rudvich had immediately moved to speak to Auberon, and Lancerow to Lady Doryanna. All of this mattered little. After just getting home, she had been recalled again. Apparently, High Chancellor Ocato needed her, but as to the purpose she had absolutely no idea.

There was no time to ponder this, because she would have to start moving immediately. There was no time to rest. She was heading back to the Imperial City.


	4. Tamriel's Gambits

Lucia sat on the floor of Master Caecus' former room, staring dully at the ground. She had been confined to these chambers immediately after her master's flight and hadn't been able to leave for at least a week. With Master Caecus now branded a traitor, her loyalties had similarly been drawn into question. Her world had been shattered in mere days—at first, she had simply despaired. Now, though, she was too emotionally spent to weep.

Intellectually, though, her mind still burned. Master Caecus had given five Elder Scrolls to enemy agents. That was a fact, and one that she couldn't avoid, no matter how much she desired to. That being said, she still couldn't understand why the greatest man she had ever met had betrayed his nation in gravest way possible. She desperately wanted, perhaps even needed, to believe that Master Caecus had some sort of master plan that he had hidden from her, something that involved a staged betrayal for the greater good of the Empire.

But her master would never gamble the fate of five Elder Scrolls—the most powerful and iconic artifacts of the Empire of Tamriel—on such a ruse.

Which brought her right back to the question that had been eating at her soul for the last week: why had Master Caecus betrayed the Empire? Why had he betrayed her?

The door opened widely, rousing her from her thoughts. A royal guard was standing in front of her. "High Chancellor Ocato demands your presence."

Lucia slowly stood up. She walked towards the guards, not making eye contact with them. There was still something so alien about her life now. Before these halls were quiet, yet welcoming. Now, the silence was repressive, making it clear to her that she was no longer wanted. The guards, too, had become united against her—the soldiers once dedicated to protecting her were now constantly at the ready to strike her down at the smallest hint of rebellion.

She didn't know how long she could last like this.

For the second time she entered Ocato's office. Across the room, she could see the high chancellor hard at work, writing at his desk. He glanced up. "Very good," he said to the guards, "You are dismissed."

The guards left the room, leaving Lucia alone with the second most powerful man in the empire. Ocato turned back to his work. "Sit," he said, not looking up at her.

Lucia crossed the room quietly and took a seat in front of Ocato's desk. Ocato continued to write for about a minute. All that sounded in the room was the scratching of his quill against the parchment. Perhaps he was trying to intimidate her with the silence. Lucia didn't know. Eventually, though, Ocato put down his quill and covered his face with his land. He let out a long sigh. Another moment passed, and then he spoke. "I cannot overestimate how dire the situation we are in is."

Again, silence.

Ocato moved to pick up his quill, but decided against it. He shook his head. "Caecus told you nothing of his motivations." It was as much a statement as it was a question.

".. Yes," responded Lucia.

"Naturally. As I had suspected, you know nothing. At least as far as intelligence is concerned, you are useless."

Lucia looked up, honestly surprised. "You believe me?"

Ocato looked her in the eyes. She was surprised: for such an old, weary man, he still had a powerful gaze. "Not particularly, no. Caecus is a traitor. He very well may have trained you for this contingency, to have you feign ignorance. Your former—or perhaps current—master was perhaps the most talented priest the Order of the Ancestor Moths has ever produced. The arch-prelate even once dubbed him the 'Second Coming of Gudrun' in private. His apprentice would no doubt be a dangerous, wily foe.

"Be that as it may," continued Ocato, "I doubt we'll pry any information out of you. You either truly are innocent, in which case we will learn nothing, or alternatively are so tightly bound by this plot that we will get nothing without the most hideous of tortures. And while I considered that option briefly, keeping you intact is the better strategic option for us."

Lucia took a deep breath in. For a moment, an image of Master Caecus flashed before her. She could almost hear his voice—_I have trained you for this._ She banished the thoughts from her mind. She looked back up toward Ocato, trying to stay resolved. "Strategic option...? I don't understand. I mean no disrespect, High Chancellor, but you speak in riddles."

To her surprise, Ocato gave a ghost of a smile. "Perhaps I do. All shall be made clear, however, once our guests arrive. The first of whom, it seems," he said, looking over Lucia's shoulder, "Has seen fit to eavesdrop on us.

Lucia turned her head around. They indeed had company. Standing in the doorway the the silhouette of an Altmer woman. The moment that Lucia looked upon her she felt... Something. The woman radiated a kind of pressure that Lucia had never felt before. She felt uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't fathom, and felt herself involuntarily draw into her chair. The woman spoke, her voice sharp and clear. "It has been some time, Ocato."

Ocato nodded to her. "Good evening, Speaker."

The woman entered the room so smoothly that it nearly seemed as though she were gliding. "I must confess, I was uncertain as to why now of all times you have summoned me. But when I read that you needed that Master Caecus dead... Well, you would need an assassin of my caliber, yes."

Despite everything, to hear "Master Caecus dead" still managed to make Lucia's throat burn. Ocato seemed less moved. "While murder may be your expertise, Arquen, I would remind you to keep your priorities in line. Caecus is the secondary objective—retrieving the scrolls takes absolute priority."

Arquen gave a cold smile. "I understand the task, Ocato. So long as you remain true to your end of the bargain, I will fetch you your scrolls."

Lucia looked the woman over once more and realized something she had missed. Stitched into Arquen's robes was unmistakeably the symbol of the most unholy of orders: The Dark Brotherhood. Lucia's eyes went wide and she gasped. Arquen looked down at the novitiate. "Who's the girl?"

"Caecus' mentee," replied Ocato, "You'll be taking her along with you."

"She's part of my team?" Arquen said, her voice dubious.

"Not exactly. She lacks the skills the other possess, but she knows Caecus better than most, and if we're lucky there might be some bond of sentimentality that you can exploit between the two."

Lucia looked to Ocato, now openly worried. "What do you mean?" she asked, "Where are you sending me?"

"To Akavir," said a voice from behind her.

Ocato looked towards the door once more. "And so another arrives. Welcome, Flamet."

Lucia turned to look at the man behind her. He was middle-aged Breton, perhaps fifty. His black hair was peppered with gray, and his face was weathered enough that he must've spent most of his life traveling. Like Arquen, before him, Flamet had a sort of commanding presence to him that Lucia couldn't quite describe—this one not as unnerving as the assassin's, but nevertheless he left a deep impression. He walked in, taking off a gray mantle, "High Chancellor," he began, his voice steady and even, "When I first received word from you, I was quite certain that I was walking into a trap. Truthfully, I am still unconvinced that you will not turn on me. But to see you in the company with a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood is relieving—a bitter relief, perhaps, but relieving all the same."

"Are you so surprised that I would call on you? The operation I have planned is a dangerous one," replied Ocato, "And thus I assembled the best, regardless of their previous... Transgressions."

Arquen sized the Breton up. "Flamet?... As in Auguste Flamet?"

"You know of me?" Flamet asked, not altogether surprised.

She nodded slowly. "I have only a layman's understanding of necromancy, but even that is enough to know of you. One does not work alongside Mannimarco himself and not acquire some degree of infamy."

Again, Lucia felt dizzy. Meanwhile, Flamet averted his gaze. "Ah, yes... That still is what I am best known for, isn't it?"

Arquen nodded slowly. "Your work was revolutionary, even—"

"It was a long time ago, yes," Flamet interrupted.

Ocato coughed once. "Flamet, Arquen will be your superior on this mission. Listen to her commands. Arquen, Flamet is a powerful mage, as you'll soon find. He specializes in necromancy and is one of the greatest practitioners of mysticism alive. He is furthermore one of the very few individuals other than the King of Worms who has been proven to have mastered death-magic."

Flamet crossed his arms. "I believe that is enough, High Chancellor. You're frightening the young lady."

Lucia could hear her heart pounding. She was to accompany a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood and a dread necromancer? What was Ocato thinking! She had always assumed that the High Chancellor was a righteous, god-fearing man, but now...? Part of her thought that he must have good reason to ally with such villains, but no such reasons came to mind.

Flamet looked about the room. "Didn't you say we had a party of four?"

"The other two will arrive shortly," Ocato replied.

Arquen scoffed. "You men are blind. The Argonian entered right behind Flamet."

Flamet and Ocato both gave her curious looks (Lucia's was more horrified), and Arquen pointed across the room in response. They turned and saw that, indeed, a third individual had entered the room. He was an Argonian, clad in a dull looking breastplate. There was something about his eyes, though—Lucia thought Arquen's eyes were cold, yet sharp. Flamet's were calm, yet deep. The Argonian, though, had eyes that unnerved her, almost as though he were sizing up prey. He had an almost feral air about him that made Lucia's skin crawl. Flamet looked the Argonian over appraising. "He got by me without me noticing wearing such armor? Heavens, I am getting old."

"Do not be too surprised," said Ocato, "Being stealthy in heavy armor is one of Hides-His-Heart's specialties."

Arquen put a hand on her hip. "Muscle with discretion? I appreciate that."

"He is an expert enforcer of an organization that has requested that their identity not be disclosed," said Ocato, "He's not much of a conversationalist, I'm afraid."

Flamet didn't look convinced that Ocato had told him everything, but did not voice an objection. Lucia, meanwhile, looked over to Ocato. Her attempts to remain composed had utterly failed—she was frightened, and it showed. "Please, High Chancellor, there must be some horrible mistake. I cannot go with these—"

"Quiet, girl," Arquen snapped, "I'm still waiting on my team to assemble."

"Your final member shall arrive soon, Arquen," said Ocato, "She's likely giving the guards a deal of... Trouble. As for you, Lucia, you will go with them."

"But—"

"No buts," Ocato cut in, "If you do not accompany Arquen to Akavir, we will take it as the equivalent to a confession of high treason. You would be put to death."

His voice was cold. Lucia couldn't believe her ears. She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but nothing come out. She honestly felt as though she were in a waking nightmare—it was too outlandish, too horrible to possibly be true. It was as though the world had collapsed into a dark parody of itself, with black corruption covering the very heart of the Empire she had so much devotion to. As Lucia tried once more in vain to express herself to the man she once respected so much, she heard a scream in the hallway. Ocato looked towards the door. "That must be her now," he noted, dropping his attention away from Lucia.

Again, the scream. There was something primal to it. There was no fear in it, just pure, unadulterated rage. The yell rang out again, although this time it was able to mold itself into words. "Take your filthy hands off me, Imperial trash! I'll kill you!"

Ocato gave a tired smile, while Arquen had one that was more amused. Lucia glanced to Flamet, who looked wary, and Hides-His-Heart, who didn't seem to be interested. Moments later, two guards barged into the room, dragging along a wild and flailing Altmer woman. Lucia could hardly get a good look at her between her screaming and writhing, but could tell a couple of things about her. First, she was unlike the others in the room, both young and quite pretty. Second, she was dressed in prisoner's rags and didn't seem very well fed. As the woman looked about the room she noticed Ocato, and stopped her mad attempts to escape. "Ocato!" she hollered.

"Good evening, Miss Camoran," replied the High Chancellor.

Arquen's eyes immediately narrowed. "Camoran?" she whispered.

The prisoner nearly broke into another rage. "I'll carve my mark into your hide!"

Flamet's expression was now thoroughly shocked for the first time this evening. "Ruma Camoran? The daughter of Mankar Camoran is still alive?"

"So it would seem, yes," noted Ocato.

"Let me go!" Ruma screamed, "I'll finish what my father started!"

Ocato leaned forward and looked Ruma in the eyes. The madness in them flickered away, but not the hate. "Will you now, Miss Camoran?" he said, slowly and deliberately, "Will you really...?"

Ruma was shaking with rage, although it was less dramatic than her previous convulsion. Ocato nodded slowly. "I thought not."

Arquen shook her head and laughed once. "Is this some sort of joke, Ocato? Do you really expect me to take along a former member of the Mythic Dawn?"

"I know that this is not the best of first impressions," conceded Ocato, "But I can assure you, despite her proclamations, her loyalty can be guaranteed. I did not select any individual that I could not entrust the future of the Empire to. Ruma Camoran is, despite—or perhaps because of—her past, one of Tamriel's foremost experts of the destruction school. When properly motivated, little can stand against her."

Arquen seemed unconvinced. "I run tight operations. I have no need of a woman prone to falling into destructive fits."

"Then simply tell her that they are forbidden," said Ocato, "Miss Camoran is very well aware of the consequences of not cooperating. Isn't that right?"

Ruma continued to stare at Ocato. Lucia had never seen such hatred before—the sight of such passion made her heart race. "Ocato..." hissed Ruma.

Ocato turned his attention to Arquen. "Well, Speaker, here is your team. You four are among the most talented Cyrodiil can offer, and all four of you know that you individually have enough at stake to undertake this admittedly dangerous endeavor. Your objectives are simple: retrieve the Elder Scrolls from Akavir at _any and all costs. _If you can kill or capture Caecus, all the better. But without the scrolls, the Empire has no future."

Lucia could say nothing. This was her fate. A Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. A necromancer who studied at Mannimarco's side. A shadowy enforcer. And the daughter of one of the Empire's greatest enemies. United to kill her mentor. And in the middle, her, with her own life on the line. For a moment, she felt faint. Master Caecus would've been ashamed at her weakness.

Arquen looked to Ocato. "We have a contract. I am a professional—I never break a contract. And if the loyalty of my newly-gained compatriots is as unshaking as you claim, Ocato, they shall not break it either. We will go to Akavir. We will rescue your precious scrolls. And afterwords, you will pay us the rewards that you have promised."

Ocato nodded. "That is our pact."

"Good," Arquen said, a dark smile spreading across her face, "Then we are united as one body. We are the Stygian Vow."

* * *

"You want Nels Llendo," the agent was told, "He'll get the job done."

He was told this time and time again. Llendo had only arrived at the Imperial City a few months ago, but he had already built up a reputation as someone who could get work done. If the rumors were true, he had done everything from infiltrating a bank to sinking a merchant vessel at the waterfront. The agent had rather high expectations of what this Llendo would be, but actually finding him was proving difficult.

After asking around for nearly three days, the agent had trailed him to a small tavern in the Elven Gardens. It was a dim, cramped building, furnished with creaky tables and uncomfortable stools. The agent turned up his nose but scanned the room regardless. In one corner of the room, he saw him—a grizzled looking Dunmer sitting, focused on his drink. He was clad in dark leather armor and bore the scars of more than one battle. The agent approached. "Nels Llendo?" he asked, placing one hand on the table.

The Dunmer looked up. His gaze was intense. "You've got the wrong man."

"I'm not with the law," replied the agent.

The Dunmer shook his head. "No, I mean you've got the wrong man. You want him," he said, pointing over the agent's shoulder and towards the corner of the room.

The agent turned around and looked behind him. Sitting in the other corner of the room was another Dunmer, this one rather unlike the first. He was leaning back in his chair, sharply dressed and well-groomed. A self-assured smile slipped on to his face when he noticed that he had gotten the agent's attention. "My, my," he began, sipping a glass of wine, "I'm certainly becoming popular these days."

The agent approached. "You're Nels Llendo?"

"My reputation has finally begun to precede me. Or at least," he added in a brief addendum, "the reputation of where I idle away my time. Maybe someday people will link my name to my face."

The agent took a seat across from him. "I hear you do a variety of work."

Llendo gave a slow nod. "Oh, I do a little of this, a little of that..."

"I have a proposition for you," said the agent, reaching into a pocket. He retrieved a sheet of paper and slid it towards the rogue.

Llendo casually picked up the sheet and began looking it over. He didn't look particularly interested. "Hmm... Not exactly my expertise, this."

"Look at the payment," the agent said.

The Dunmer's eyes scrolled down the document. A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Well, that is a pleasant surprise. This Flyte girl must be rather important."

"Don't say her name out loud."

"My apologies," Llendo said, setting down the sheet of paper, "Next time warn me before you show me those sorts of payment figures."

"So you'll do it?" asked the agent.

"Well, that is the question, isn't it?" said Llendo, leaning back in his chair again. "I'll grant you that the fee you're offering is quite generous. But this is a rather... Involved task. Risky, too. There are easier ways to make money..."

"Cut the haggling," the agent cut in, "I can find another man, if I need to. My fee is larger than it should be—either commit or let me move on."

Llendo let out a good-natured sigh. "Heavens, I can't even barter well. What sort of rogue am I? Very well then. I accept your terms."

"Good," replied the agent, "Her ship is at the docks. You'll do well to head there immediately."

"What, and give me no time to pack?"

"Get moving."

Llendo set his glass of wine down. "What a slave driver you are."

The agent didn't respond and left the tavern without so much as a glance to Llendo. The rogue's previously carefree countenance morphed—he still bore a smile, but it was less blithe and more calculating. "Time to get to work, then. Barkeep," he said, tossing a pouch at his side to the counter, "I'm going to be gone for some time. Consider my tab closed."

The bartender moved to the pouch and began to count the money inside. "Heading out of the City for your next job?"

"Indeed," replied Llendo, "In a way I'm rather lucky. Most people don't get paid to travel abroad."

The barkeep grunted and kept separating out the money. A moment later though the comment sunk in and his eyebrows raised. "Wait, what do you mean 'abroad'...?"

His question was in vain—Llendo had vanished, apparently into thin air.

The barkeep spat on the ground. "Mother Mild, I hate it when he does that. Thinks he's all mysterious—dammit, Nels, I know that you're hiding behind the door."

A moment later, he heard Llendo's chuckle. "A pity. I tried really hard that time," he confessed, moving out of obscurity from a nearby door. "If you're done humiliating me at my own craft, I suppose I really must be going."

The barkeep snorted. "Best of luck to you, Nels."

Llendo smiled as he left the door of the tavern, "And to you as well, good barkeep."

The door shut tight, and the barkeep moved to sweep the coins into his strongbox. As he did, however, he noticed something curious—a small yellow trail appeared on the counter as he dragged the pile across the wood. He picked up a septim and scratched it with his fingernail. Sure enough, a thin layer of gold paint scraped off, revealing useless iron underneath. The barkeep turned his head to the door. "Llendo!"

It was too late. Llendo was truly gone this time. Be that as it may, the barkeep could have sworn in that last moment he heard a chuckle, not too far away from his window...

* * *

Roliand Hanus watched the fields pass him by as he rode in the cart. The road was rough, and he was frequently bumping up and down from the jerky ride, but to be out of the academy and in the great outdoors made it all worth it. Cyrodiil's mild winter left the weather at a comfortable temperature, and kept the air fresh and clean. Before him, he could see the unploughed fields, some broken by a rebellious oak or two, resting in the peaceful lull of winter. Occasionally a group of deer would burst from a glen and rush past, as one did now. Roliand smiled and looked to his side, where Beyte sat. "They're glorious, aren't they? You don't have deer out in Morrowind, do you?"

"No."

Beyte hadn't bothered to look at him. Roliand frowned. He might as well, seeing as thought Beyte didn't seem to care one way or another. He figured that the daughter of an ancient archmage might be a little strange compared to the other girls he had met, but he hadn't quite expected this. It wasn't just limited to observations on the wildlife.

"_So, Beyte, why don't you tell me about your family."_

"_I have three sisters and my father, Lord Divayth Fyr."_

"_Ah."_

"_..."_

That was all. He pressed a little bit more about her mother, later, but she simply told him that it was quite complicated.

"_See that Ayleid ruin on the hillside? I collect Ayleid artifacts. Cheap ones, of course, but it's exciting to own a piece of history, you know?"_

"_..."_

"_So, ah, do you have any hobbies?"_

_"I enjoy cooking, and am responsible for entertaining at Tel Fyr."_

"_You're... Responsible for entertaining?"  
_

"_Yes."_

"_..."_

"_..."_

Roliand had always seen himself as a social person. He was pretty good at making friends. That's why Beyte was so frustrating to him. She was like an uncrackable nut—every time he tried to broach a topic or make conversation she would give a simple answer and not pursue a followup of her own. She did this nearly every time. But the oddest thing is that she didn't seem to dislike him. He had rubbed people the wrong way before, and could tell by body language that they didn't like him. Beyte did none of that: she seemed simply just to not care in the least, one way or another. Roliand had found that, when queried on something that was relevant to his quest, she was much more forthcoming. "So," he began, "Do you want to go over the plan again?"

"Of course," Beyte said, turning to look at him.

It made no sense. Roliand had gone over this topic no less than four times over the course of their travel south, but every time Beyte seemed just as willing to discuss it with him. But, if awkwardly going over the same conversation was going to be the only way the two of them would bond, Roliand was damned well going to do it. "We're going to Leyawiin first."

"Correct," said Beyte, "We'll need to head to a port first, naturally. Once their, we'll take a ship my father has commissioned east."

This part had always bothered him. "What kind of ship are we taking east, though? Are there any that even know they way to Akavir?"

"There are records—very old records—from Uriel V's invasion. They are not available to the public. Naturally, my father has gathered most of them. He is a powerful and influential man, Roliand. Making the trip to the continent will be the easy part, I can assure you."

"So where in Akavir are we headed?" Roliand asked. He had asked this question before.

"The woman who kidnapped my sister had Kamal blood, so we must likely check Kamal territory. I know neither where Kamal territory is nor how to traverse it. The documents I have read call it "Ice-Hell". Thus it is likely to be dangerous without a guide. We'll need to find a native before we can pursue the kidnapper."

"So we'll find a cooperative native from an empire preparing itself for war with us?"

"That would seem the plan, yes. As unlikely as it seems, High Chancellor Ocato seems convinced that the four races of Akavir have united as one, so we'll need to do research to find the weakest link in their alliance. I've brought some material to read on the voyage over. It will be long, I assure you."

Roliand had looked over the "material" Beyte spoke of. Some of it was older than he could fathom, including handwritten letters of the ancient potentates. Others were, unbelievably, from Artaeum.

"_Artaeum? _The _Artaeum? This is from the Blessed Isle itself?"_

"_Yes"_

"_But the Psijics don't even let people into their libraries, let alone give up their documents."_

"_That is usually the case, yes. They didn't want to hand over these, either, but my father insisted. He can be very persuasive."_

"So just a little light reading for the trip over?"

"It won't be light," replied Beyte, her voice sincere, as always. "We know very little about Akavir. Even my father has gaps in his knowledge. We'll need to learn as much as possible while we still can."

"I know," said Roliand, starting to lose his spirit, "I was just making a joke..."

"I could tell," said Beyte, turning away from Roliand, "But I wanted to reiterate the importance of this task. It will not be easy, Roliand."

"I'm aware."

"No, you're not. You don't realize how hard it will be. You will, in time."

They were silent. Only the belabored creaking of the cart's wheels and the occasional birdsong broke the day's still. Roliand glanced over once more to Beyte. Her face was never really at rest, he noticed. It was always thinking—always at attention. She lived life with a sort of determination that must've been thoroughly exhausting. What part of her was the daughter of Divayth Fyr and which was the real Beyte, he wondered. "I don't take it you have many visitors at Tel Fyr, huh?"

"No, we don't."

"And you don't often leave the tower?"

"Only occasionally."

"Ah..." said Roliand, looking out over the fields. "... It must get pretty lonely sometimes, right?"

"Not really, no."

The conversation died. Roliand kept looking over the farmland. This was going to be the last time he'd see his homeland for months. He had never even left Cyrodiil before. He glanced back at Beyte. "It's going to be a long trip, huh?"

"Yes, it will be."

Roliand didn't respond this time.

* * *

Lady Flyte entered High Chancellor Ocato's office, which was brilliantly lit by the morning sun. She saw Ocato working at his desk. He looked very fatigued, almost as though he hadn't slept the night prior. He looked up upon Lady Flyte's entrance and smiled. "Ah, yes. I've been expecting you."

She had traveled immediately from Anticlere to the Imperial City upon receiving Ocato's summons, and wasted no time reporting to him. She had spent a little time with him a year prior, in the year 434, and knew that he was burdened with the nearly impossible task of keeping the rapidly fraying empire together. If he was to call upon her, it was likely for something of signal importance. She curtsied before him. "It is a pleasure to see you once more, High Chancellor."

She took a seat. Ocato nodded. "I am pleased to see you as well. I confess that I am surprised our reunion is so soon—it has been only a few months since we last parted, and yet the situation of the Empire has changed dramatically. I speak, of course, of Akavir."

Akavir. During the turbulence of the last year, Lady Flyte accidentally came into knowledge of more than one state secret. Akavir's planned invasion was one of them. This was not the topic she was expecting, but handled the revelation deftly enough. "Is the war underway?" she asked, somewhat concerned.

"No, gods be praised," replied Ocato, "Not yet. I've spent the last few months compiling all the information we received last year, along with what I've found afterwords, to make as complete as picture of Akavir as we can from this continent. These are the facts: somehow, the Ka Po' Tun people, under the leadership of the 'Dragon Emperor' Tosh Raka, have united the other three races of Akavir under their banner: the serpentine Tsaesci, monkeyfolk of Tang Mo, and the Kamal snow demons. Now, Tosh Raka leads what he calls the Infinite Empire, with its imperial ambitions set solely on annexing Tamriel. All the evidence I've found supports this claim, which is... Curious to say the least. We know little of Akavir, but we know that there are deep racial hatreds between the four peoples. Tosh Raka could not have conquered them by force: had he, there would be no manpower to launch an invasion for years. In other words, Tosh Raka must have peacefully united Akavir, or have at least fought as little as possible."

Lady Flyte listened carefully. As an educated noblewoman she knew something of Akavir, but few specifics. "And Tosh Raka must have done so recently."

"Correct," replied Ocato, "Such massive changes in geopolitics are not missed for long, even if they take place across the ocean. Thus, if Akavir is recently united and through peaceful means, the bonds that hold the Infinite Empire together must be fragile ones. It is for this reason I have called you. I am requesting your services. I wish you to go to Akavir as an Imperial envoy to the Tsaesci. I want you to negotiate with them and secretly investigate them. Your primary task is to simply stall them—try to take up as much time as you can. But I feel as though the Tsaesci have their own goals from this alliance with Tosh Raka. If you see an opportunity to break it, do so."

Lady Flyte could not respond for some time. This was of a magnitude far greater than she had anticipated. She thought Ocato would simply request council, or perhaps inquire to the delicate situation in the Iliac Bay. But to suddenly request a diplomatic excursion to the ends of Nirn? It was unheard of. After a moment of thought, Lady Flyte began to speak. "... High Chancellor, I am honored by this task, but surely there are others that are more versed in Akaviri lore than I."

"There are, yes. But I have told few of this situation. If I select a member of the Elder Council, the news will most certainly leak. You, Lady Flyte, already know of the Akaviri threat, and your dispatch will not raise too many suspicions. You're also an astute diplomat, so I need not worry about your competency. Believe me, the last thing I want are more worries"

Lady Flyte nodded, although she was still a little shaken. Ocato realized this and took out a folio of papers. "This is likely very sudden for you. Luckily, the voyage to Akavir takes a long time—you'll have plenty of opportunities to study from these documents I have assembled. There is nothing that I can add which is not already in these papers, which is why I encourage you to leave immediately. I have already sent word to Leyawiin to prepare you a ship sturdy enough to cross the ocean."

"T-Thank you sir," Lady Flyte managed. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the situation. She had to go to Akavir? Immediately? But there was much she needed to do before she left. And some things she wished to to while in the City... She looked down to the folio in her hands, and saw that Ocato was already returning to his work. He had given her a few minutes of his time for this huge task and seemed now to be absorbed in his writing. There was little decorum or propriety to this. Perhaps the era of decorum and propriety was over.

Slowly, Lady Flyte turned to leave. She heard Ocato speak once last time before she did, though. "I have been to Akavir, you know. Once."

Lady Flyte looked back to Ocato. He was still engaged in writing a document in front of him. "I was the junior-most member of the Elder Council during Uriel V's expedition. I was there for a week to dissuade him from his war. He did not listen. I did not meet many Tsaesci, but those that I did were _fundamentally_ duplicitous. Remember that."

"... What was it like?" Lady Flyte asked softly.

"I was there only for a week, and it was a long, long time ago. More than a century now. We stayed near the shores, never venturing deep into the heart of Tsaesci territory. I can tell you little, but my notes are in that folio."

Lady Flyte nodded slowly. "I understand. I'll do my best."

Ocato didn't reply. Lady Flyte chose not to take up and more of his time. She exited his chambers and entered the hallway. Waiting just outside were her two knights, Lancerow and Rudvich. Lancerow grinned. "Well, that was fast."

Rudvich gave a vexed look to the younger knight. "As loath as I am to admit it, I fear that I agree with Sir Lancerow," he said, "We had thought that you would speak with the High Chancellor for some time."

"As did I," said Lady Flyte, starting to walk down the hall.

"So, what are our orders?" asked Lancerow, filing in behind her.

"We're going east," replied Lady Flyte.

"Morrowind?" ventured Rudvich.

"Farther east."

"Somewhere in the Black Marsh?" asked Lancerow, "Please, my lady, what's farther east than Morrowind?"

"I'll tell you in a moment, gentlemen," replied Lady Flyte, "We're going to have plenty of time to discuss it, after all..."


	5. Departure

Masser was at its zenith tonight. Even the black, spindly branches of the leafless trees in the forest couldn't block out its red light. Occasionally, it clad itself in a thin sheet of silken clouds, coyly hiding from Lucia's eyes. She had rarely left White-Gold Tower, let alone the Imperial City. She had seen Masser from the windows every night, though. In a way, the moons were the only thing that hadn't changed in her world. She became so caught up in watching the sky that she had successfully escaped from reality. However, she was brought crashing back to earth a moment later. Her foot had gotten caught under a root, causing her to trip and fall. Arquen looked back at her. "Keep moving, girl," she barked, "We can't afford to have you waste time."

The Stygian Vow had left Ocato's chambers immediately upon completing their meeting. They spoke little to each other—Arquen had mentioned that they would take a boat out from the Niben River, but little else. Lucia looked about for help as she tried to undo her shoe from the root. Flamet was standing near Arquen, watching expectantly. Ruma Camoran passed by Lucia—the novitiate looked up at her hopefully, but was entirely unnoticed. She couldn't even see Hides-His-Heart: the Argonian sometimes slunk into the dark, vanishing from the world for a time before suddenly reappearing like some creature from the mists.

A few jerks of her leg later and Lucia managed to pry her foot out from under the root, although she twisted her ankle in the process. She looked back up to see that the group was already moving on. She tried to keep pace. A cold wind blew, whistling through the trees. From the tower, these forests had always seemed so vibrant and inviting. Now, in the frigid winter night, she found it as repressive as the so-called "companions" she walked with.

Minutes passed. New gusts of cold wind came and went. Creatures rustled in the underbrush, too cunning to attack Arquen's Vow. Lucia, cold and alone, simply went forward. Each moment she manually told her weary feet to step in front of the other. She no longer looked up towards the moon.

Arquen paused. "We've arrived."

Lucia looked ahead. The forest was clearing, leading to a small tributary of the Niben. She could hardy make out any more from this distance, except that there was something ahead of them that looked... Black. Lucia had spent enough hours outside that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but the thing in front of her was different. It was blacker than the night.

She was able to make it out more as they grew closer. It was a black ship, large enough to hold a decent sized crew, but small enough to slip larger pursuers. On the surface, there was nothing foreboding about it beyond its coloring, but like Arquen, it had an aura to it that made Lucia's hair to stand on end. She could hear Flamet's voice ahead. "So this is our vessel?"

"Yes," replied Arquen, "What you see before you is the ship of the Dark Brotherhood—the _Death's Reach_."

Ruma scoffed. "The '_Death's Reach'_? I can't tell if you brotherhood types are more melodramatic or uncreative."

Arquen didn't reply. Again, Flamet. "I assume the crew is waiting on us?"

"Not at all. Death waits for no man, and its reach requires no physical hands. Sithis' blessing is enough."

Indeed, there was not a soul on board. Arquen approached the vessel and walked across the gangplank, with Hides-His-Heart and Ruma following closely behind. Lucia noticed Flamet slow before he boarded. He stopped right before he stepped on the ship. She could hear him mutter one word under his breath, "Sithis..."

A moment later he continued on, as did Lucia. It was several seconds later when she realized what she had really done: she had just stepped off her native soil, and would not set foot on it again for a long, long time. She had the sudden urge to jump off the ship and wade to shore. A clamorous sound from above her interrupted these thoughts—the sails of the _Death's Reach _unfurled themselves. Arquen was not boasting. The ship needed no crew.

Slowly, it left the shores and began sailing down the river. As the rest of the Vow entered the lower decks, Lucia remained outside for some time. As dark and foreboding as these woods were, it was still Cyrodiil. Even in the darkness, this was the land she was born and raised in. To her surprise as she looked at the deep forest, she was already nostalgic for something she didn't necessarily like. After all, even the blackest woods were better than this ship...

Or Akavir.

Dragon Land. She had almost forgotten where she was going. Were the stories of lands ruled by vampire-snakes true? She had read a little regarding the eastern continent, but had no idea what was myth and what was fact.

The only fact she knew is that Master Caecus was there.

She looked back up to the moon. As the forests slipped farther into blackness she wondered: when she was in Akavir, would the moon still be there? Because if not, she really would be entirely alone. Lucia sighed once and turned to where the others had gone and entered the _Death's Reach._

* * *

Roliand headed below decks. He and Beyte had arrived at Leyawiin without incident, and no more than an hour later they set sail. Beyte was extremely efficient in all things, it seemed. The crew were all Dunmer, and there was an odd air about them. The ship itself apparently had dozens of secret compartments he was expressly told not to look for (he was, of course, going to do so at the first opportunity), and it was, despite being rather small, apparently capable of crossing the vastness of the ocean. Yesterday, Roliand asked Beyte if the crew were smugglers. "No, they're Telvanni," she replied, "Oh, and don't mention your Mage's Guild membership on board. That would create complications I'd rather us avoid."

He mentally tried to track the days in his head. They had been out to sea for three days now. All in all, it had been rather boring. He had gotten through two books already, and being cramped inside the ship meant he couldn't really train or exercise. He had asked Beyte how long she thought the trip would take. She told him that she didn't know—it depended on the winds and the morale of the crew. It would be two months, minimum.

When he first heard that, it dampened his optimism. But, there was nothing to be done. If he was to be on a boat for the next sixty-odd days, he might as well make the most of it. At least he had his own cabin. As he walked towards it, he passed Beyte's door and stopped. Light shone from under the crack. He hadn't even seen her yesterday. She never left her room. He shrugged once and rapped at it with his knuckles. "It's Beyte," called out a calm, steady voice.

Roliand rolled his eyes good naturedly. "I'm the one who's supposed to give my name, you know. Besides, who else would you be?"

"A thief or an enemy agent," replied Beyte. Roliand could never fathom how she could say such bizarre things with that never-changing tone of hers.

"In the middle of the ocean?"

"We're nowhere near the middle, Roliand. Much closer to Tamriel than to Akavir. And furthermore, you should never underestimate your enemies."

"Do we even have enemies?"

"More than you know." That voice. Never callous, never frustrated, just... factual. As if she somehow knew all of this in advance.

A moment passed. Roliand tapped the toe of his boot on the floor. "So, ah, can I come in?"

"Of course," Beyte said, "You should ask so earlier, if it is your original intent."

Normally, Roliand would make some sort of sarcastic quip, but he was (reasonably) worried Beyte would take it at face value. He entered the room. It was actually his first time in it, and he was rather surprised with was he saw. She had already unpacked all of her things, to the point where he almost mistook a cramped ship cabin for a wizard's study. She managed to fit in an alchemical station, a small desk, dozens of books, and a hammock in what limited space she had. The room smelled of the chemicals simmering in an alembic and of musty old tomes. Beyte was sitting, quite engaged in her work. She had a recently-written looking scroll open in front of her while she wrote down notes on a sheet of paper laying next to it. She looked up and gave Roliand a neutral expression. "Was there something that you needed?"

"Not particularity," replied Roliand, nearly tripping over a rogue box, "I was just checking in and seeing what you were up to."

Beyte returned her attention to her work. "I'm translating at the moment."

"Akaviri stuff?" asked Roliand, leaning towards the table.

"Ko Po' Tun, to be precise," said Beyte, "It's important to keep the races of Akavir distinct in your mind."

Roliand gave her a confused look which she naturally didn't see. "Wait. You speak Avakiri?"

"Again, there is no 'Akaviri' as we have Tamriellic. This document is, as I said, in Ko Po' Tun. That being said, I'm also learning Tsaesci, as it is the mostly widely spoken language on the continent."

"That's, ah, helpful," Roliand said, "But my point being was that I didn't know you spoke any Akaviri languages."

"I can speak neither, yet," replied Beyte, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "But I can read a fair amount, given a dictionary to consult. What I'm working on isn't the most difficult of texts. I'm building my way up towards more obscure writings."

Roliand nodded. "What's that in particular?"

"A portion of a recently completed epic on Tosh Raka's life. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm nearly done with this section." She blew softly on the paper to dry the ink. "This might be a good exercise for you. Read this over and tell me what you think."

Roliand took the piece of paper and looked it over. Beyte's small, orderly handwriting filled the page. The section was short, but interspersed with comments and notes that Beyte had bracketed off. The paper was as follows:

_Chapter Ninty-Seven_

_Tosh Raka Searches for a Bride. The Birth of Zhal Raden._

_Like the majestic mountain without a crown of clouds  
__Even the most sacred of hearts yearns  
__And wishes for the warmth of companionship._

_Once Tosh Raka had built the first Dragon _["Dragon" here is certainly not used in the metaphysical]_ Ship, he returned to his palace and sat on the Serpent-Fire Throne. He had become a god, and as he was greater than all mortals, his divine heart became lonely and isolated. He could speak to no one, because none could comprehend the perfection of his soul. And yet one day, he issued a challenge. "I require a consort. May the lands bring me their finest women, and let heaven favor that one may be worthy of Tosh Raka."_

_Tosh Raka cried this, and his command rang out from his palace and traveled all across Akavir _[Lit: "Dragon Land." Implies future unification, dates this section's writing to post-union]_. Immediately, every province sent their finest woman to the holiest city that Tosh Raka might give them the honor of viewing her as an equal. The Celestial Bureaucracy lined up and vetted the one-hundred and sixty-six women that arrived, but only four were allowed to see Tosh Raka._

_Tosh Raka received the first, who came from the University-City_ _Heugon Zhouln _[Lit: "Book-Carrying Place"]. _She was a glorious woman, perfect in all regards, except that she lacked divine diligence. When faced with an impossible task, she would rather quit than finish. Because of that, she was not worthy of being the consort of Tosh Raka, and was banished out into the wastes._

_Tosh Raka received the second, who came from the Woulen_. _She was a glorious woman, perfect in all regards, except that she lacked divine intelligence. When faced with an impossible question, she would confess ignorance rather than discover the truth. Because of that, she was not worthy of being the consort of Tosh Raka, and was banished out into the wastes. _[Obvious repetition. Similar to rhetorical devices in Merethic Era legend-poems, not First Era-inspired historical epics such as this. Purposely blended?]

_Tosh Raka received the third, who came from the Jsoulen Mountain _[Mythical location, purported "Lost Capitol" of the Tsaesci]_. She was a glorious woman, perfect in all regards, except that she lacked divine integrity. When faced with an impossible quandary, she could not find an ethical _[Word carries both moral and legal connotations] _outcome. Because of that, she was not worthy of being the consort of Tosh Raka, and was banished out into the wastes. _

_Tosh Raka received the fourth, who came from Pa' Tun o Kalaton. She was a glorious woman, perfect in all regards, except that she lacked divine immortality. When faced with an unavoidable death, she could not find a method to attain eternal life. Because of that, she was not worthy of being the consort of Tosh Raka, and was banished out into the wastes._

_Tosh Raka was disappointed, however, rather than give in to sorrow he left his palace and found Wayol Chivvay, the greatest hosol-kath _[Untranslatable. Lit: Ancient caste of skilled craftsmen, including carpenters, artists, "practical" scholars, and smiths]_of his time and demanded that he fashion the most magnificent clay sculpture ever made, but not to bake it in the kiln. Chivvay was honored to receive this commission, and worked for four straight days and four straight nights _[Four carries mystical connotations in Ka Po' Tun culture]. _When he was done, he created the world's first truly flawless statue._

_Tosh Raka took the statue to his hidden workshop _[? No previous references to "hidden workshop," perhaps archaic term?] _and placed it in the kiln. Then, he opened his great jaws and breathed out his dragonbreath. The clay was baked in the sacred fire, and when Tosh Raka ceased the flames, the sculpture had become Zhal Raden. Zhal Raden kneeled before his father and said, "My father and emperor, I am honored to be your son. I am yours to command: send me forth that my might may be directed according to your desires and my power be used to enforce your heavenly mandate."_

_Tosh Raka was pleased with Zhal Raden's form. "You bring me great pride, my son. I will make you an agent of my will, and your strength will be second only to my own. I hereby dub you Zhal Raden, the Prince of Fury, as you were born not from the feeble form of a woman _[Classic Ko Po' Tun sexism]_, but from the divine rage of my own breath."_

Roliand set the paper down. Beyte looked up at him expectantly. "Well?" she asked, "What do you make of it?"

"It's a fanciful story," Roliand shrugged, "But all made up. All it shows is that Tosh Raka uses propaganda like this."

Beyte's expression changed. She looked disappointed. This was the first time Roliand saw any real form of outward emotion from her, and he didn't really know what to make of it. "That's all? The propaganda element is obvious, Roliand, but it is not pure fable. Analyze. What can you really learn from this?"

"Ah..." Roliand mumbled. He felt as though he were suddenly plunged back into classes, and was beginning to regret this visit, "Well... Zhal Raden was born out of wedlock. I suppose this could be a way to legitimize a bastard child."

His partner didn't buy it. "Think harder. The text calls the prospective women 'consorts', not brides. Zhal Radan's association with Tosh Raka should be enough to dispel doubts on his legitimacy, at least in the Infinite Court."

Roliand shook his head. "Well, I don't know. I'm not really an academic sort of person. Don't you think it's sort of unwise to try to coax truths out of a story that claims you can turn statues into people?"

"No," replied Beyte, straightening out her papers, "I'll admit that it is not an easy task, however, we must work with what sources we have. We know no truths on Akavir, and we own no document that is entirely verifiable. We can simply take what we have, make hypotheses to prepare ourselves, and see which actually stand when we arrive."

"Well, we've still got some time, right?"

"Time has a way of moving faster than you'd like it to," replied Beyte. She picked up a book from her desk and tossed it to Roliand. "Read this."

Roliand barely managed to catch it. It looked old and thick. He frowned as he thumbed through the pages. "Will there be a quiz?" he said dryly.

"I don't wish to make one," said Beyte, "Seeing how busy I am, but if it is the only way to—"

"I got it!" Roliand interrupted, "Don't worry, I'll get it done."

He left in a hurry, likely not wanting to get bogged down in more tasks or pained conversation. Beyte, however, didn't go immediately back to her work. She stared at the door for a few moments, frowning. She slowly shook her head, picked up her quill and attempted to return to her work.

* * *

A deep sea fisherman was once asked by a boy who never left the shore what being days out on the ocean was like. The old man said, "It's a field of endless blue." Lynette Flyte heard that story once when she was a little girl, and the image of it stuck with her til adulthood. Now, to her surprise, she actually saw it for herself—her vessel was about a week out from shore, and she could no longer see any hint of land. Above her was the vast, cloudless sky; around her was the endless, choppy sea. She glanced out towards the horizon and could hardly make out where the two worlds separated. The strong, salty wind blew her hair back, making her attempts to look like a lady of her station completely in vain.

She had spent a lot of time up on decks, thinking. The shock of going to the east had worn off now. Akavir was something she was concerned about, but this was her new reality. Nobility would perish if it could not adapt to new situations, she had learned. While her evenings and nights were spent over documents, her days were spent here, watching her boat cut the water in two as she went farther and farther from her civilization than many would ever go. It was actually a pleasant feeling. She didn't have to be home, for starters. The poisonous atmosphere there was hard to handle now. When she was younger, she used to get quite homesick for the musty halls of Anticlere. Now, it was quite the reverse: being at home make her want to be anywhere else. She thought of a saying she heard once: "Perhaps I broadened my horizons too much."

She leaned against the railing and stared at the seafoam. Her detachment was short lived—a second later there was a loud bang as a door to the inside of the ship was burst open. Lynette jumped in surprise and heard Lancerow's voice call out, "Stowaway!"

Lady Flyte turned around and saw the last thing she would have expected—a Dunmer man barged out on to decks, closely pursued by Lancerow. "Can't we just talk this out?" the stranger called to his hunter.

Lancerow drew his sword. "It's over, stowaway."

The Dunmer kept running, but tripped in his flight. He collapsed on the deck not too far from Lady Flyte, who backed up against the rail in shock. The Dunmer looked up. "Ah, there you are," he said, his voice surprisingly suave coming from a tangled pile of limbs.

Lancerow moved slightly slower, trying to gauge the Dunmer's actions. "My lady, be at your guard."

"W-who...?" Lady Flyte stammered dumbly.

The Dunmer gave a pleasant laugh as he propped himself onto one knee "Nels Llendo, at your service," he said, swiftly snatching Lady Flyte's hand and giving it a gentle kiss.

Lady Flyte didn't look any less confused at this whole affair. Lancerow moved forward. "You're dead, rogue!"

"I prefer the term 'troubadour'_,_" Llendo said watching Lancerow approach, "And surely you can't cleave me in twain before I confess my burning passions?"

Lancerow gave him a harsh laugh, "You'll be confessing to the slaughterfish by the time I'm done with you."

Lady Flyte shook her head, trying to get a bearing on the situation, "Stop, Sir Lancerow."

He gave her a curious look. "My lady, surely you understand why we need to slay this man?"

"Nobody is going to kill anyone on this deck," said Lady Flyte insistently, "Not yet by any rate."

Llendo beamed. "You see? Lady Flyte's beauty is matched only by her magnanimity."

At that, Lady Flyte realized that Llendo was still holding her hand, and she sharply drew her arm back. "And you! Who are you and why are you on my boat?"

"Ah, well that is a tale," Llendo said standing upright. He glanced back at Lancerow, who seemed to be reluctantly following Lady Flyte's orders. He continued, "There I was, a penniless artist in Leyawiin, without muse, without focus."

Lady Flyte looked him up and down. "You're certainly a dapper dresser for a penniless artist."

"Well, I had become penniless in that most noble pursuit of high fashion," Llendo said, not missing a beat, "And as I lamented my empty, if stylish, existence, what did I see walk down the docks than your angelic figure?"

Lancerow snorted, "By the Nine, he lies through his teeth. I'll finish him with a single stroke—"

"Hold, Sir Lancerow," Lady Flyte insisted again. She looked to Llendo, her face torn between suspicion and confusion. "... Continue, Mr. Llendo."

"With pleasure. As I was saying, I saw you enter this ship, and I realized that my art would be soulless without your radiance to inspire it. So I snuck on board, hoping that I could create a masterpiece to stand the test of time with your likeness."

For a few moments, no one said anything. Lancerow looked frustrated that he couldn't just kill Llendo. Llendo, meanwhile, seemed very adamant in his story, even though the theatrics of it almost made it seem a game. All the while, Lady Flyte's curious expression didn't falter, still unsure who this man really was and why he barged onto the ship—he was either astonishingly inept or dangerously skilled. "... And you are sure that is why you came aboard the ship?"

"My lady," Llendo said with clearly feigned indignation, "Your suspicions' bite is more bitter to me than the arrow's."

Lady Flyte sighed. "What to do with you...?"

"My lady," began Lancerow, "We surely cannot keep this man aboard—"

"And yet we have no other options, do we?" said Lady Flyte, "We can either kill him or keep him on this ship, and I do not intend on killing him any time soon."

Nels Llendo's face broke out into a confident smile, "My lady flatters me with her mercy."

Lancerow, however, was less than pleased. "You're being dangerously soft. What would your mother think?"

"It is not your place to question my decision, Sir Lancerow," Lady Flyte responded with authority, "Please escort Mr. Llendo to the hold. We can keep him locked in a storage room until we next stop to resupply."

After a moment of hesitation, Lancerow gave a shallow bow. "I shall obey," he said, and then grabbed Llendo by the wrist.

"Ach, need you be so rough?" the Dunmer protested.

"Come along, rogue," Lancerow responded, dragging him towards the still-open hatch leading into the ship.

Lady Flyte watched the two leave, her face now far more troubled than it had been before. Llendo opened his mouth theatrically, but was suddenly jerked inside by Lancerow before he could make any professions. The two went deep into the ship until they reached a small, well built room near the stern. It was entirely empty, with only a small hatch at eye-level providing any contact with the outside world. Lancerow locked the door and looked down on Llendo through the aperture. "Isn't it odd that you suddenly fall madly in love with Lyn on the very eve of her departure to the other end of the world?" he said, his voice dangerous.

"It's extremely odd," replied Llendo playfully, "In fact, it must be destiny."

Lancerow snorted and turned around. He walked towards another door that would lead to a separate area of the ship. Right as he opened the door, he could hear the Dunmer's voice. "Can't I at least get a pillow?"

The door slammed shut. Llendo shrugged and lied down on the floor. He stared at the ceiling quietly. It wasn't the best of first impressions, granted, but at least he was near Lady Flyte. And there would be plenty of time to accomplish his task, he mentally noted as he closed his eyes. Plenty of time...

* * *

The _Death's Reach _was tossed about the stormy ocean like a leaf in a fountain. Massive waves picked the ship up, almost leaving it airborne before having it plummet back, crashing into the water. The fel magic that powered the boat was certainly its salvation—had it any seamen on its riggings, they would have been cast into the black sea long ago. Outside, the howling wind, crashing waves, and spears of lighting were far more potent than the kinds found in Tamriel proper. It was proof, perhaps, that the ship had truly gotten far out into the ocean.

Below decks, things weren't much better for Lucia. She was kneeling in her small cabin, trying her hardest to say her prayers. The lurching of the ship didn't agree with her, though: she was pale and sweating. She felt horribly ill, and her body was trembling from being trapped on the boat. She was almost tempted to pray for release from his horrible sea, although she knew that would be in vain. She didn't know what time it was either—she desperately needed sleep, but the sickness she felt made it impossible.

The ship lurched again. A new bout of nausea threatened to overtake her. She clasped her hands tighter together. "M-Mara, Mother Mild," she stammered, "Make us hale and hearty..."

Again, Lucia felt the floor seemingly move from under her. "Please..." she muttered, "Make us hale and hearty..."

The sea had been like this for hours. She couldn't even think of a time she had felt so sick. Across the room, she could see her fork roll across the floor. She felt nauseous again. "P-Praise Stendarr, the Nine, and all—"

She tried to finish the words, but couldn't. She knew she couldn't hold out any longer. Lucia tried to make her way to a corner of the room, but was too slow. She gave a gasping cough and then hunched over. Another cough, and she felt something burning travel up her throat. She retched for a few moments before collapsing on the floor. She still felt horrible. "Stendarr..." she moaned as tears welled in her eyes. The room smelled horrible.

"Please..." she said again, her voice somewhere between crying and begging. She was so engaged with her illness and detached from the world around her, she didn't hear the door to her room open.

There were footsteps. She felt a handkerchief near her mouth, cleaning it. A moment later, she felt herself scooped up by a pair of arms. "We need to get you to bed," said a voice from above her.

Lucia, in her illness and fatigue, was trapped in the state between dreams and the waking world. "My prayers aren't..."

"I can finish them. Which were you on?" she heard as she felt herself being set gently into bed.

"Stendarr..." she whispered.

"Praise Stendarr, the Nine, and all the Saints," said the voice above her.

"Julianos..." Lucia said softly. She felt a blanket being pulled over her.

"In Julianos, all justice and wisdom." Lucia felt a pillow placed under her head. It was very soft, and her tiredness was finally winning the long campaign against her illness.

Before she slipped into sleep, Lucia mouthed one more word. "Arkay..."

The voice was silent for a moment. "Arkay..." it said, slowly, "Arkay, bless my body and soul."

Lucia's breathing steadied. The stranger spent a moment to make sure that she was truly at rest, and then stood up from her beside her. He slowly walked out from Lucia's room, closing the door behind him as he left.


	6. Living with Determination

Lucia stood just outside of Flamet's cabin. This was the fourth time today she had approached it. She slowly, nervously, brought her knuckles to the door. A second passed. She swallowed. She moved her arm to knock, but stopped her hand about an inch before it hit the door. She hung her head and bit her bottom lip. Her hand fell to her side.

She turned around. She couldn't do this. She shut her eyes tightly, stepped forward, and walked promptly into Ruma Camoran, who apparently was also walking about decks. Lucia gasped. "I..."

Ruma scowled. "Watch where you're going, girl," she said and pushed Lucia away from her. She continued to storm down the hall and entered her cabin. Lucia was alone in the hall again. She sighed.

Lucia looked back to Flamet's door. He was a necromancer. She was a priestess. There was something _wrong _about associating with him. The fact that they were on the same ship was shameful enough to begin with; the fact that she had accepted charity from him, fully aware of her surroundings or no, was enough to put her soul in jeopardy. Then again, Lucia wasn't so naive that she thought that this was the only time she would be forced to compromise her faith on this voyage. And, monster or no, he did help her last night. She couldn't run away from that. Lucia took it a deep breath, brought her hand to the door and rapped it twice with her knuckles.

"Please, enter," said a genial voice from inside. Lucia opened the door.

The necromancer's den wasn't what she had envisioned. Besides a mortar and pestle surrounded by herbs in one corner, the room was simply full of books. Perhaps some were actually unholy grimoires, but she couldn't really tell from their titleless, leather bindings. The more she looked about, the more she realized there wasn't even a bed or a hammock. There was, however, a desk, and sitting at it was the pupil of Mannimarco himself, Auguste Flamet. Admittedly, he looked more like an aging scholar than a student of the black arts at the moment, but Lucia knew that this was no time to let down her guard. He smiled. "Ah. Miss... Lucia, was it?"

Lucia swallowed again. "Yes," she managed.

"It is good to see you. Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to a chair at the other side of the desk. "Forgive me if I am being too casual in addressing you, but I must confess that I never learned your surname."

"I am a Moth Priestess," Lucia said, walking cautiously to the seat, "I do not have one."

"Of course," Flamet said, "Then I extend my apologies to you once more. In truth, I am simply gladdened that you stopped by my room. I have been concerned about you as of late."

Lucia didn't bother to mask her suspicion. "Is that a reference to last night?"

"Partially, yes. But you've had trouble sleeping ever since you were forced to accompany us, and you haven't been keeping yourself well nourished, either."

"How would you know that?" Lucia said, her voice a little defensive.

"It does not take a Psijic to notice the deep circles under your eyes, or your hollower cheeks, Lucia," Flamet said, his voice concerned.

"Why would you care?"

"Do I need a reason to?" Flamet replied.

No response. Flamet closed his eyes and smiled. "... I see," he said. He reached down under his table and fetched a decanter of water and a pair of glasses. He filled the glasses and handed one to Lucia. "Please, drink. It is important for you to remain well hydrated while you can. Your body needs to stay strong for when you arrive at Akavir."

She eyed the water warily. Flamet lifted his glass to his lips and drank from it. "It's not poisoned," he said with a smile.

Lucia returned neither his smile nor his attention. She glanced away to a corner of the room. Flamet set his glass down. "Truthfully," Flamet said, his voice not registering any offense, "I am surprised to see you call on me. You've rarely left your room all these days at sea."

A moment passed as Lucia tried to compose her thoughts. There was something about Flamet that was disarming in a way she didn't expect. There was a sort of gentleness to him that unnerved her even more than her previous fears of him being a cold, cackling monster. There must've been some sort of act or angle to the way he was portraying himself, but she couldn't figure it out yet."You... Cared for me last night," said Lucia, "And it would be very impolite of me to not thank you for your charity."

Flamet continued to smile. It always seemed to come easily to his face. "Please, do not worry yourself over that. One doesn't need a reason to do the right thing."

For a necromancer to say such a thing. Lucia stood up. "Well, that said, I really ought to return to my cabin."

She said 'ought' as though she had some sort of obligation or duty on board this ship. She knew well that she would simply sit in solitude, as she had done day in and day out. Flamet knew too, but never let that gentle, comprehending smile leave his face. "Then I wish you a good evening, Lucia. Just remember, my door is always open to you if you ever need to talk."

Lucia nodded and turned around as fast as she could. Without wasting a moment, she left Flamet's cabin, closing the door tightly behind her. Even alone, Flamet's expression did not change. He pondered for a moment before his face slowly became neutral and he returned to the thick tome that was lying on his desk.

On the other side of the door, Lucia walked at a brisk pace back to her room. Her eyes were closed tightly, lest tears well in them. What would Kynareth say about accepting his aid, let alone thanking him for it? Was her urge thank him the Divines' way of testing her? Had she given in and fallen to temptation? She didn't know. All she knew was that she would give anything, _anything _to be off this horrible boat, and never have to deal with Flamet, Hides-His-Heart, or Arquen—

A crash. She had, yet again, walked straight into someone. As she looked up, her blood ran cold as she saw Arquen's amber eyes glaring down at her. Her lip trembled. "You know," Arquen began in a horrifyingly steady voice, "I have killed people for less clumsy mistakes."

"I..."

Arquen's eyes didn't soften. "Ocato wants me to keep you alive, and I will put some effort into doing so. He never said that you needed to be intact, though. Have you ever considered which of your fingers are unnecessary...?"

Lucia was trembling. Her mind was shooting off thoughts randomly, half-paniced. "Please, I—"

"Don't do it again," said Arquen. She pushed Lucia aside and continued on her way.

It took a few seconds for Lucia's legs to steady and her breath to even. A speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. They were as horrifying as the legends said they were. She walked the few feet remaining to her cabin, very carefully this time, and opened the door. Before she entered, though, she took one last glance across the hall. Flamet's cabin.

She shook her head clear of such thoughts and entered her room, the door shutting securely behind her.

* * *

The sky was covered by swirling gray clouds, letting forth thin, mist-like sheets of rain upon the increasingly choppy seas. Normally, Roliand actually liked this kind of weather. Today, though, his spirits weren't high enough to really enjoy it. As the days pressed on, he wanted more and more to get off this ship, full of secretive Telvanni and, of course, Beyte. After all this time, he still hardly knew anything about her, and hadn't bonded with her in any meaningful way. It was frustrating.

A burst of wind blew from the ocean. He couldn't fathom why she was so hard to connect to. He had always figured himself rather personable. It was one of his better traits. Perhaps Beyte was just difficult to relate to. He didn't know.

Roliand looked out to the horizon. Soon, at least, they would need to stop at an island to restock. Maybe he would be able to stretch his legs and have a little fun then. It would do him good to be able to just be able to walk around a town for a few hours.

He heard the door to the lower decks open behind him. He glanced over his should and was surprised to see Beyte emerge outside. She had a shall over her shoulders, presumably for the weather. Seeing her in outdoor clothing alone was a novelty: it was rare that she ever left her room, and when she did it was only as a temporary excursion for food or supplies. She glanced at him and walked out on deck. "There you are, Roliand."

"You were looking for me?" asked Roliand, his voice surprised. He couldn't think of many times Beyte had gone out of her way to find him.

"Among other things, yes," said Beyte, walking towards him, "I'm curious to see how your studies are going."

Roliand restrained himself from rolling his eyes. While Dunmer develop slower than men, he assumed that he and Beyte were about the same age, which made it frustrating that she was more likely to address him like a schoolmistress than a peer. "I'm getting through the reading," replied Roliand with an altogether more dull tone.

"Good, keep at it," she said, either not noticing or caring about the change in his disposition, "Perhaps I'll give you a few more books tonight."

Roliand shrugged. Beyte walked past him to the railing. She clasped it with one hand and look out over the sea. Despite her being difficult in the past, Roliand couldn't help but be a little intrigued. He rarely saw her do anything but read in her room. To see her on decks, with her white hair blown back by the wind and her clothes damp from the rain, was to see an aspect of her that he sometimes thought didn't exist. Roliand walked next to her and leaned against the railing, also looking at the churning, darkening clouds. "Why else are you out here?" he asked.

"Simply because I like this kind of weather," replied Beyte.

A small smile found its way onto Roliand's face. "Me too."

Beyte didn't reply. It figured. Roliand couldn't help but laugh a little regardless. "Still, it's interesting to see you out here. There are times where I can hardly think that you do anything but work."

At that, she turned her head towards Roliand. She looked him in the eyes—when Roliand used to look at them, he thought they were simply intense or powerful. Now, though, he realized that what they really were was _sincere. _"You're not far from the mark."

"Sounds like you don't have much of a social life," said Roliand, with a smile. Normally, he would've said that as a joke, but to his own surprise, he half meant it.

A pause. Beyte slowly returned her gaze out to the sea. She didn't look outwardly offended, but Roliand couldn't help feel bad. "... Sorry about that. I didn't mean it that way."

"Yes, you did," said Beyte. Her even tone was, as usual, a mystery to Roliand.

Roliand couldn't reply. What exactly was he supposed to even say? Beyte noticed Roliand's silence. "I'm not blind or stupid, Roliand. I can tell that you're frustrated."

The words didn't seem to make Roliand feel better. "Do you?"

"Of course," said Beyte, "I've spent many years entertaining dignitaries and visitors at Tel Fyr. I know quite a bit about people, and you're not the most difficult man to read. But Roliand, I _need _you to stay focused. I don't think you realize how vital you are to the future."

Roliand frowned. "You've said stuff like that before. Even Divayth Fyr said that I'm the 'only one' who can rescue your sister. But neither of you have told me why. I haven't looked a gift horse in the mouth yet, but I don't appreciate how enigmatic you two are about all this."

The tips of Beyte's shoulders rose in a nearly imperceptible shrug. "To tell you the truth, Roliand, I do not know why my father has invested so much faith in you. But I do know that he has told me that you are vital to Uupse's return, and if he believes that to be true, what can I do but agree?"

"So you're taking me along to the other end of the world to save your sister, just because your father told you to?"

"Why else? You yourself know that you're not an exceptional mage." Roliand looked offended for a moment, but Beyte pushed on, "And so I return to telling you that you _need _to take this seriously, Roliand. It will be dangerous. If you're being distracted by awkwardness or loneliness, the Infinite Dragon that is Akavir will eat you alive."

Roliand blushed, he himself not certain if it was from embarrassment or anger, and looked towards the sea again. Beyte turned back towards the lower decks. "Remember, though," she added, "We are partners. Our success depends on one another. I need to be able to rely on you, as my father assumed that I would. Prove him right."

Beyte walked away. Before she could get to the hatch, however, Roliand spoke. He wouldnt let it end at that. "You know," he said forcefully, "We're not all geniuses like you, Beyte."

Her footsteps stopped. "Can you elaborate on that?" she asked.

Roliand kept his eyes on the sea. "Not everyone is the daughter of a renowned Telvanni magister. Your father is one of the most talented individuals of all time. There's not question that his daughter would be the same. His intelligence and training has probably made you smarter than half the Elder Council. But some of us are just from small towns in Cyrodiil. You can't hold me up to expectations that I simply cant match."

"Look at me, Roliand."

He turned to face Beyte. Most people would have called her expression understanding. But again, Roliand had gotten to know her a little to well for that. It was sincere. One can only be understanding if they lower themselves down to share someone's pain—Beyte, perhaps, could not do that. "Roliand," she began, her voice soft, yet even, "I may be the daughter of Divayth Fyr, but I have not become accomplished due to inheriting his genius, or learning at his side. Anyone could achieve what I have."

"Oh really?" Roliand asked, no longer hiding his frustration with her, "How so? Are you going to say it's because you simply worked harder? Well listen, Beyte, let me tell you something: a lot of people work hard, and those people—most people—wind up failing regardless. Sometimes, even when someone works as hard as they can, they... You know..."

"Become the first person in their family to be rejected from the College of Battlemages?" Beyte said, finishing Roliand's sentence.

There was too much truth in her words for Roliand to be shocked. "This isn't just about me..."

"I know," said Beyte, "I am well aware that the vast majority of men and mer work as hard as they can to realize their dreams, only to fail and be consumed by the formless mass of history. There is something else that has to happen to truly succeed in life. I do not simply work hard, Roliand, that would not be nearly enough. Instead, I live life with determination."

Somewhere, across the seas, a distant rumble of thunder. "Determination?" Roliand said with a cynical laugh, "How is that any different from hard work?"

"They are entirely different, Roliand," responded Beyte, "Every moment of my life, I remember what I need to do and what my priorities are. The average person loses precious minutes every day when they lose focus on a task, or vital hours carousing their evenings away. Imagine if I gathered all the time you've squandered, wasted, or even used inefficiently in your life and made you look at it. You could have used that time to have greatly improved yourself, and have become the man you wished you could be. Looking at it, you would be horrified, because you had thrown away the most precious gift in the world—time—and could never get it back. I intend to never have to regrets such as those in my life, Roliand.

A moment passed. Roliand stared at Beyte, trying to figure her out. Normally, he'd say that someone who claimed to _never _waste their time would be lying to make themselves feel better, but Beyte's eyes were shining too clearly for that to be the case. Still, he wasn't yet convinced. "But by doing that, you're missing one of the points of being alive, don't you think? You've got to relish the moment and simply enjoy living. Have you ever considered in the end, someone like me will wind up happier than someone like you?"

"No. People tell themselves that, Roliand, because living with determination is the hardest thing a person can do, and they'd prefer it if their ineffectual lifestyles somehow enriched their souls. But ultimately, Roliand, I am fulfilling my dream of living up to my father's expectations, while you will always have to live with the knowledge that you disappointed your family by being rejected by the College of Battlemages," Beyte said, her voice not vindictive, but very firm, "That is the principle difference between you and me."

There was nothing else for Beyte to say. She turned around to enter the ship, and this time Roliand did not try to stop her. A moment passed as Roliand stared at the door to the lower decks, his brow furrowed in anger. Another far-off roar of thunder resounded, somewhere off in the endless, uncharted sea. The sound of dozens of drops of water began to rise up as the mist condensed into a shower of rain. A wind blew—a storm was coming. Roliand spat on the deck. "Privileged..."

He was now enjoying the weather even less. He walked off and entered the ship's hatch as the rain beat down louder on the decks of the ship.

* * *

A city carved into a mountain. Or perhaps a mountain carved into a city. Pa' Tun o Kalaton. Blindfolded, Master Caecus could not see the city, but he had seen it many, many times before. He would most likely see it time and time again in the future.

He could feel the airship begin to angle itself downwards. They were making their decent now. At last, he would arrive.

No doubt the holiest city in Nirn loomed before him. The airdocks were the highest settled tier, with only the Sacred Path to Kalaton above it. He could feel the wind down die before him: he must've been getting closer to the mountain. As the airship continued to slow, he could hear wingbeats ahead of him, followed soon after by a melodious heron-song. While it was indeed beautiful, Caecus knew well that the Ka Po'Tun were trying to overawe him. Were he a lesser man, or one with sight, he might just have been. Pa'Tun o Kalaton was different from the Imperial City: the later, while important, was infested with criminals, filth, and commerce. To bring any of those troubles to the Vertical City would be an act of unspeakable sacrilege.

The airship slowed even more. Caecus slowly moved his ears up and down. He could hear, faintly, the wind from the airship's fans break against walls far to his sides. This must be the famed airdock of the Ka Po'Tun. Caecus had seen them construct it day by day, brick by brick. It was a building project that his country would have deemed too expensive and elaborate to feasibly be undertaken: the dock itself was the size of a small town, filled with the arcane, delicate equipment that allowed the Akaviri airships to function. The airship's engines quieted even more. There was a bump as it settled into its dock, finally at home after completing its long mission. Then a clatter as the gangplank was let down, hitting the steel walkway that led towards the city. Master Caecus' voyage was finally over. He tightened his grasp on the five Elder Scrolls under his arm. His first contact would be of utmost importance.

Master Caecus walked over the gangplank and onto a metal catwalk. The hollow sound of his footsteps echoed from under him. After so long in the air he had looked forward to have firm ground under him, be he knew that there was only a thin sheet of metal separating him from a long, long plummet down into a lower tier. The Ka Po'Tun could drop the catwalk, if they so chose. Caecus knew that if they did, he would likely pass out from the fall before his body shattered against the stone so very far below him.

But the Akaviri did not drop him to his death. They needed him too much for that. He walked forward. His largest question had been who the Ka Po'Tun would send to meet with him, which was swiftly about to be answered. His ears could make out five people approaching him, all well armored by the sound of it. What intrigued Caecus, however, was their arrangement: one man at the center, with four soldiers walking in unison with him, painstakingly and perfectly aligned with the cardinal directions. Caecus was nearly flattered—Tosh Raka considered him such a threat that no mere diplomat would be sent to handle him.

The five stopped in front of him, standing on the stone of the mountain. Caecus stopped, too, but he was still on the delicate metal sheets supporting him from certain death. The one in the center was obliged to speak first. He apparently knew Tamrielic, and despite the impropriety of speaking such a tongue on sacred soil, the unusual circumstances called for sacrifices even from the gods. "Barbarian brethren from across the sea," his voice called out, ringing throughout the dock, "The soldiers of the North wish you the auspices of arrival."

So this is who Tosh Raka sent. Master Caecus had seen this man, too: it was obvious that before him stood no mere mortal, but the Supreme Celestial General of the North, Whose Commands Cause the Clouds to Scatter, Teoh Rengan. There were few reasons that the Emperor of Akavir would send one the Supreme Celestial Generals themselves, and none of them boded well for his safety. Regardless, Caecus replied immediately, as was expected in courtly-speech. Even if spoke in a barbarian tongue, he was still expected to yield obedience to the rules of ceremony. "I greet you warmly, Lord of the North," Caecus said, projecting his own voice to match Rengan's, "I am honored to be allowed to enter Pa'Tun o Kalaton."

Rengan did not yet move. "Our Emperor has deemed it proper that you may enter the city, barbarian, but you must provide tribute to our ruler first, as is custom."

Again, Tosh Raka had decided to break with tradition. It was unexpected, but Caecus would have to make due. "Should I not offer it to him personally?"

"Our Emperor is too occupied to receive you at this moment," replied Rengan, "And so his wisdom has decided that you may render unto me the tribute that is rightfully his. Hand me the Elder Scrolls."

"No."

There was shocked silence. Caecus' ears picked up some shuffling, though: Rengan's guards had broken their perfect compass and had moved closer towards him. They had yet to draw their weapons, but this was now no longer a simple courtly meeting. Caecus had defied the will of Tosh Raka, and in any other circumstance he was quite certain that Rengan himself would have decapitated him. This, however, was a unique situation. The Elder Scrolls were on the line. Rengan spoke again, his words now slow, as though he was grappling with the idea that someone could be so insolent that they would defy the Infinite Dragon. "You dare to deny our Emperor that which is his?"

"Lord of the North, I am a prelate of the Order of the Ancestor Moth," Caecus continued, without any delay, "It is a matter of religion that the Elder Scrolls are not separated from me. They may be the emperor's to use, but I am neither willing nor able to render them unto anyone."

He could hear Rengan's breathing grow heavier. He was angry. A strong gust of wind picked up, and for a brief moment the Elder Scrolls threatened to fly from Caecus' arm. Rengan gave a start; Caecus did not. "Very well!" Rengan said, "You may, _for now, _continue to hold the scrolls. But if our Emperor makes a demand of you, know that it overrides whatever barbarian order you may belong to."

"I shall see what it comes to," replied Caecus. He could hear Rengan growl under his breath. Indeed, Caecus realized how brash he must've seemed, but now there was no question as to who was in command. At least in arena of courtly-speech, the prelate had vanquished the general.

Caecus walked forward. The men in front of him stepped aside. Then, Caecus felt his foot step down on stone. Akaviri stone. He had truly done it, then. He actually had gone through with it. He was striding on Akaviri ground.

But now was no time to be lost in such thoughts. He refocused his mind. Bringing the Elder Scrolls to Akavir was just the beginning and now his true task would begin. There was danger surrounding him in this hostile and foreign land. He just prayed that he would have the ability to succeed.

* * *

_Etymologically, the Tamrielic word _emperor_ comes to us from Akavir. The Tsaesci of the First Era dubbed their most important generals _Yahim Erentor_, and it was under the command of these warlords that the great Akaviri invasions of the late 2600s took place. Reman Cyrodiil borrowed the term when he adopted Tsaesci tactics and army structure, corrupting it into the more Cyrodillic pronounceable _imperator_. When he was declared _emperor_, it was quite obvious to any citizen of Tamriel that he was drawing a parallel between his own "empire" and the massive, organized nations of Akavir._

_But whence did the Tsaesci acquire the title of _Yahim Erentor? _From none other than their great rivals, the Po'Tun. While the Tsaesci used it as a military term, it's Po'Tun roots, _Jaon Hugindor, _describe a role more similar to that played by the rulers of Tamriel than Tsaecera. Instead of leading armies, the _Jaon Hugindor, _or emperor, of the Po'Tun ruled as a figurehead from Pa' Tun o Kalaton. _

_Of course, the Emperor of Po'Tun has had varying amounts of influence over the years. In Tamriel, _emperor _carries notions of military and civic leadership. _Jaon Hugindor, _however,_ _literally translates closely to "One who Brings Order to the Heavens." Some emperors of Po'Tun have extended their __cosmic mandate to Mundus, ruling as absolute monarchs over their people. Often, though, they have wielded little power. For instance, during the Usurpation of the Toushin Clique (2e 540-77), the Supreme Celestial Generals confined the powerless Emperor Joiuin to his palace and took full control of the nation. Even today in the second century of the Third Era, it seems that the Po'Tun emperors will never again retain the glory they once held._

_Thus, the word _emperor _has had a rather ironic history. We call our rulers emperors in respect to Tsaesci generals. The Tsaesci generals, however, used it in respect to the Po'Tun rulers. Tamriel, naturally, has found the truest aspect of the word: The Septim Dynasy, not our oriental rivals, has brought vindication to the title of emperor._

Lady Flyte sighed and put her book down. If the circumstances were different, it would have been amusingly out of date. Now, however, the stakes were too high to warrant any humor.

She was seated in her cabin. It was small, but comfortable enough that it reflected a lady of her station. Unlike most young noblewomen, however, it was strewn with all manners of books that Ocato had given to her. Some of the material had come from the Imperial Library. Some were from Ocato's private collection. It wasn't entirely helpful, however, between the nearly unintelligible obscure texts and the more mainstream but often contradictory accounts of Akavir.

Ocato hadn't just left her books, though. She found two parcels in the bottom of one of the boxes the Empire had given her. The first contained an enchanted choker, elegant enough to blend into most of her outfits. There was a short, handwritten note from Ocato next to it: _Will let you comprehend/speak Tsaesci._ She hoped that was true, because seeing as though there were no speakers of Tsaesci anywhere nearby, she wasn't going to know definitively for some time.

The other item was not exactly what she had expected. Now sitting on her table was a beautiful ebony tanto. She wasn't an expert on weapons, but she knew that the short blade must've been from Akavir. Why else would have Ocato wrote the cryptic note: _You know why this is important. _She had no idea what Ocato meant. She knew it was Akaviri, true, but there were many Akaviri weapons floating throughout Tamriel. It was clearly valuable. The raw ebony alone must've cost thousands of gold, but the craftsmanship itself was exquisite. The scabbard had a small scene of a mountainside brook carved into it. She could see individually detailed leaves on the trees that shadowed a meltwater brook. Being made of ebony, the blade was deceptively heavy for its size. Even so, Lancerow had swung it a few times and claimed it was extremely well balanced—a rare compliment from the knight who was very critical of inferior weapons.

She leaned over and drew the blade halfway out from its sheath. A flawlessly keen edge reflected the room's light in response. Sometimes she would draw it and look at its length. She wasn't sure why. Sometimes, if she angled it just right, its dark, polished surface would reflect her own face.

A knock came from the door. Lady Flyte pushed the tanto back into its sheath. "Come in," she called out.

The door opened and Rudvich entered. He was carrying a platter laid out with a tea set and a pair of scones. "Good evening, my lady," he said, walking towards the table, "I've brought you your tea."

Lady Flyte smiled warmly in return. She had seen little of Rudvich in the year prior, and she appreciated his return to her life. It wasn't that she had a strong bond with him, per se, but she couldn't think of a time in her life where he wasn't present. Indeed, one of her earliest memories was actually his knighthood ceremony. He was more like her childhood bed or the bench near the pond where she would often read: something comforting and familiar, but not a thing to have a meaningful relationship with. Still, she felt safer with him nearby, and appreciated the little things he did for her, like prepare her tea. "It looks wonderful, Sir Rudvich."

Rudvich didn't respond. He set the tray on Lady Flyte's table and poured the tea into a cup. "I presume your research is going well?" he asked.

Lady Flyte gave a small frown. "It's a difficult task. Nothing I read seems to be straightforward. Honestly, I keep on running into more questions than answers."

The cup was now completely filled. "Luckily you still have some time to finish your reading," said Rudvich.

"That is true."

Rudvich set the teapot back on the tray. He gave a soft cough. "I also had hoped to speak to you about the stowaway."

"You mean Mr. Llendo?" Lady Flyte replied, not really wanting to return to this subject again, "Yes, Sir Lancerow has made his opinions on our unexpected guest quite clear."

Her knight bowed his head, but his voice was insistent. "I just wanted to remind you that keeping him on board is potentially dangerous. Not just to us, but to our mission as well. By allowing him to stay aboard, there is a new element of risk that Sir Lancerow and I must factor in to your protection."

Lady Flyte frowned. True, they had to now take safety precautions that she had assumed their small retinue wouldn't need. Be that as it may, she wasn't swayed by Rudvich's point. "I understand your reservations, but please understand..." she began slowly. The words were so clear in her head, but trying to actually form them into coherent points was far more difficult than it had any right to be. "I... Do not wish to have him killed because of me."

Rudvich moved away from the table. Lady Flyte's tea had been fully set out. "I do not presume to tell you what to do with the stowaway, my lady," he said as he stood up straight, "I just wanted to confirm that you are fully aware of the danger he could bring to us."

She gave a single, yet strong nod. Rudvich bowed and turned around. Before he made it to the door, though, Lady Flyte looked back up. "Sir Rudvich?" she called out.

He turned to her. "My lady?"

Lady Flyte bit on her thumbnail for a moment. "Please, be frank with me. What would my parents have done with Mr. Llendo?"

Rudvich needed no time to think. "Your mother would have put him to death immediately. Your father, on the other hand, would have likely pursued a course of action similar to your own."

A small smile found its way onto Lady Flyte's face. "... Thank you, Sir Rudvich. Remember, we will have to resupply soon when we reach the Island of Esroniet. I promise you that we will leave Mr. Llendo there."

"That is relieving, my lady," replied Rudvich, "I wish you the most pleasant of evenings."

With that, he left. The room was quiet once more. Lady Flyte glanced at her tea. She picked up a small cube of sugar and dropped it into the cup. It turned from snow-white to an unpleasant brownish color instantly. A few moments later it grew smaller and smaller before it eventually dissolved into nothingness. Lady Flyte frowned. She picked up the tea and sipped it—as usual, Rudvich had brewed an exceptional pot.

Rudvich. Once, an angry commoner told her that all the members of her court lied to her. She knew that to be true. Still, she had to wonder when exactly Rudvich lied to her. For that matter, she needed to know when Lancerow lied to her, too. And for reasons that she herself was trying to determine, she was now very curious as to when Nels Llendo was being truthful as well...


	7. The Isle of Esroniet

For being the person the most desperate to get off the _Death's Reach, _Lucia was surprised to see that she was the last person to make her way above decks the morning the ship was to pull into harbor. Her heart raced with joy: she could see land. The ship was swiftly approaching an island that was growing ever larger on the horizon. This must be the Isle of Esroniet. She had waited so long to arrive that the sight of it raised her so frequently-trampled spirits.

As she looked about the deck, though, she was reminded of her current reality. Arquen stood near the bow, calmly watching the island. She must've been doing something to control the crewless vessel, but the less Lucia knew about that, the better. Ruma Camoran leaned on a railing at the port side of the ship, tapping her foot impatiently. Lucia looked at her for a moment until Ruma realized she was being watched. She scowled, and Lucia immediately looked away. Elsewhere, Lucia could hear Hides-His-Heart's breathing somewhere in the shadows behind her, like a swamp beast, but she tried her hardest not to let it affect her. That left, to her dismay, Auguste Flamet who was watching from the starboard rail. Upon seeing Lucia he smiled and gave a wave. "So good to see you, Miss Lucia."

Lucia hesitantly walked forward. "... Good morning, Mr. Flamet," she said, approaching the starboard side of the ship herself.

"I assume that before us you can see Esroniet, Jewel of the Padomaic Ocean" he said, gesturing toward the bow of the ship, "I have read of it in the past, but in truth I never assumed that I would ever travel this far east. It shall be fascinating to see it with my own eyes."

"I've read very little about it," replied Lucia, "Only that Uriel V used it as a staging operation for his invasion of Akavir."

Uriel V's invasion. It was hard for her to believe that there was a time that Tamriel was the nation doing the invading. Then again, the expedition met with unparalleled disaster. Ocato did not seem to believe that an Akaviri invasion would share the same fate. Flamet looked to her. "If you're curious, I can tell you a little of the island's history."

Lucia nodded. Flamet cleared his throat. Across the ship, Ruma scoffed, which Flamet ignored. "Scholars believe that Esroniet was first settled by Atmorians via Skyrim, soon after the Great Migration. This thesis is backed up by linguistic evidence, seeing that their tongue is so similar to our own. Because it was colonized by men, it has generally been in Tamriel's cultural sphere, although neither Tamriel nor Akavir have ever occupied it for an extended length of time. It's just too far away for an indefinite presence to bureaucratically feasible."

"But Uriel V conquered it," said Lucia.

"True," replied Flamet, "But do remember that it was in the grip of the Empire for less than a decade before it reasserted its independence. Uriel's conquest, however, did see the construction of Black Harbor, the city in which we are docking. By founding this city, hundreds of Imperial citizens flooded the island, not only to fight the Akaviri, but also to build ships, balance ledgers, and care for the wounded. When the legion withdrew, many of those Imperials found that there was great demand for their services in Esroniet, and even greater profit for the financially-minded. As a result, there is still a sizable population of Imperials living in Black Harbor, maintaining Tamrielic customs. You won't mistake it for Chorrol, of course, but it should be familiar enough for you be comfortable."

Lucia didn't reply. She glanced back at Ruma, who was staring at the sky. She looked back to Flamet. "How long are we going to stay on the island?"

Arquen spoke before Flamet could. "For as little time as possible. We've got a job to do in Akavir, not Esroniet."

Ruma smirked and smacked the railing she was up against with her fist. "That's not very descriptive, Arquen. Did you not want us to know how much damage your little club's ship took in the storm? We'll be grounded all day at the very least."

"Watch your tone with me, girl," Arquen replied, not looking back at Ruma, "You might've had some privilege in the Dawn, but you're under my command now. If you keep on looking for trouble, I can assure you that you'll find more than you bargained for.

Ruma glared at Arquen. She looked as though she was choosing her words for her leader, but before she could speak, Flamet seized control of the conversation. "Please, ladies," he said, his voice calm, but with firmness lying under the surface, "We are all allies and comerades here. There's no reason for us to argue."

Arquen didn't reply. Ruma made a face, but also remained quiet. With the Speaker silenced, Lucia couldn't resist giving a small smile. She wasn't often happy recently, and Flamet couldn't help but notice her improved mood. "What do you plan on doing on the island, Lucia?"

The question caught Lucia off guard. "Me? I... I don't know." She was being honest. All of her fantasies primarily involved her simply leaving the ship. After she got off, she really had no idea what she would do next.

"Well, if you're ever at a loss as to what to do, I would welcome you company," said Flamet in that suspiciously affable voice of his.

Lucia, again, was taken aback. She opened her mouth instinctively, but found that she couldn't find the words to reply, as so often was the case for her recently. Flamet simply smiled, not seeming to take any offense. "Of course, I do not wish to impose anything on you."

"I'll go," Lucia said suddenly. The words coming from her own lips surprised her. She could hardly believe what she just said, or why she said it.

"Wonderful," replied Flamet, "We'll have a grand day out."

Lucia didn't reply. It was too late to take back her statement now. She couldn't fathom why she had agreed, but agree she did. Esroniet approached, and she would leave the ship. But naturally, fate was all to happy to muddy even this small happiness, for the ship wasn't intending on leaving her.

* * *

"Oh good sir jailor?" Llendo called out, almost in singsong, as Lancerow approached his cell.

"Mara preserve us..." Lancerow muttered.

"The ship's stopped moving. Have we reached the Isle of Esroniet?"

"No," said Lancerow, shoving some stale bread and cheese through the small hole on Llendo's door.

Llendo put his head to the aperture and looked at Lancerow. He did his best to make his eyes look as large and pitiable as possible. "I suspect that you and the lovely Lady Flyte will have shore leave here. Don't I get any shore leave?"

Lancerow responded by shoving a battered old flask of water through the hole, hitting Llendo in the bridge of the nose. "If I had it my way, rogue, you'd spend the rest of your life rotting in here."

"Ach, my dear jailor," Llendo said, rubbing where the flask had hit him, "Has anyone ever told you that you have a bit of a nasty streak?"

"Not in so many words," replied Lancerow, turning around.

Llendo again moved as close to the hole as possible. "Haven't you any compassion in that heart of yours? You know, it's been the fondest wish of mine to visit this fabled isle. Can you really find it in your soul to deny a man the dream of his life?"

Lancerow gave a cruel smile. "Your life's dream was to visit a forgotten little island in the middle of the ocean? What kind of idiot boy pines for that?"

"Well, granted, it's only been the dream of my life since I overheard that we'd be stopping here a few days ago," Llendo conceded, "But! That said, for the past seventy-two hours the desire to set foot on the sands of Esroniet has seized the very core of my being!"

"Wasn't Lyn 'seizing the very core of your being' last time I checked?" Lancerow asked, crossing his arms.

Llendo gave Lancerow a grin, "Cherished friend, the Lady Flyte is 'the object of my burning passions'. I think a man has room in his heart to both be burned by passion while at the same time have his very core seized, no?"

"... Sometimes, rogue, the fact that I haven't run you through yet really stuns me." Lancerow said, making for the door.

"Come now! How can you say such things? The bond twixt a prisoner and his noble jailor is supposed to be a beautiful and sacred thing."

Lancerow stepped through the door and slammed it shut. Llendo shook his head in response. "What do they teach those knights in Anitclere?" he said with a dramatic sigh, "Chivalry is dead art..."

He rolled his shoulders to crack his back, and then flicked his wrist. A lockpick tumbled down from his sleeve and into his hand. He inspected the door once more. It was a tricky lock, seeing as though there was no keyhole on his side. There was one on Lancerow's, but it was a good foot and a half down from the small hole near the top of the door. Llendo certainly couldn't reach it with his arms. It would be enough to make even an experienced thief give up. Llendo, however, had a job to do, and every moment that he spent in the hold was a moment that Lady Flyte got farther away from him.

He worked quickly and methodically. He first looked to the floor, where he had spent the last couple of days prying at a board. It was too well crafted to be pulled out, but he found a weak grain in the wood. He jabbed the blunt end of the pick into the wood, causing it to split. A thin, yet long, section of timber broke off, just as Llendo had hoped. Without wasting time, he turned to his trousers and, (burdened by the guilt that can only be known by a lover of high fashion forced to destroy a truly lovely pair of pantaloons) ripped off two strips of fabric. He took the sheets and tied one of their ends to the wood and one of the ends to the pick. He picked up the wooden stick: the lockpick hung under it, suspended by the fabric strips. The easy part was done.

Llendo walked to the door and stuck the wood through the hole. The pick tumbled down, hovering right next to the keyhole. Slowly, carefully, Llendo brought the lockpick to the keyhole. It wasn't an easy task. This wouldn't be a simple lock to crack even under normal circumstances. Here, though, he could see neither the lock nor the pick. Compounding that, any movement he wanted to make with the pick was jerky and imprecise. He closed one eye and listened to the door. A tap as the pick hit the wood. Another tap as the pick hit again. A third tap. Then, though, the metal-on-metal sound of the lockpick hitting the keyhole. He was in.

He pressed his ear to the door. Without holding the pick in his own hands, he could barely make out where the tumblers where. He could hear them, true, but, being on the wrong side of the door, that was only of partial use. Yet again complicating matters was that if the pick broke, he was sunk. He moved the wood up. The sound of a tumbler, although of which one he couldn't be sure. "Not as simple as I had hoped..." he whispered.

A metallic click. He breathed in suddenly—had the lockpick broke? He gave the smallest of nudges to the wood, and heard the pick fall slightly. It had been a tumbler. He smiled in relief and moved on to the second. He was starting to get the hang of using the wood. It wasn't easy by any definition of the word, but now the task seemed somewhat less impossible.

He maneuvered the pick under the second tumbler. This is where it got tricky. If he failed to push it up, the pick broke. If he wasn't perfect, the first tumbler would fall, and the pick would break that way, too. "Nocturnal, help me out here... Mephala, would work, too... Goodness, even Almsivi, I know we've had our bumps in the past, but if you'd be offering..."

Llendo held his breath. This was it. He moved the wood with utmost care. He could hear the pick snag the tumbler inside the door. He tried to bring the pick up, and he could hear the faint sound of metal moving from the lock. The work was too delicate: even the smallest of motions of his hand felt like a clumsy swing of his arms. The tumbler kept moving up, slowly, until...

Another click. Llendo gave a long exhale and pushed at the door. It swung open easily. He shook the tension out of his hands. "Now, good sir jailor, wouldn't you agree that it would've been much easier for everyone had you just given me the shore leave from the start...?"

With that, Llendo began to depart the ship. His would have to move quickly to catch up with Lady Flyte. He retrieved his pick, gave one last distressed look to his ruined trousers, and left the room, en route to the sunny shores of Esroniet.

* * *

"I feel _great!_"

This island was better than Roliand could had ever dreamed. His expectations were very low: any chunk of land where he could stretch his legs and put a little distance between Beyte and himself would've been more than enough. But Esroniet! Between the fresh, warm ocean breezes, the crystal blue waters rolling onto the black-sand beaches, and the exotic tropical fruits for sale, he felt like he had wandered into paradise. It was a shame that he only had one day to spend here, but he could hardly think of a better place to be. And for a man who had never been out of Cyrodiil, it was so much the better.

Roliand was now walking through the commercial district, taking in the sights. He could tell that he was in between two great continents: a merchant would hawk Orcish armor or Breton tapestries next to a stall containing porcelain vases or pungent spices. Roliand made it a point not to dwell too much on the Akaviri merchandise. He would have plenty of time to do so when he was actually in Akavir, after all, and this was perhaps the last friendly town he would visit in a long time.

He looked at a row of buildings that he was passing. There were a variety of stores: a book store, an alchemical supplier, a jewelcutter. One, however, caught his eye. He stopped before an old, creaky looking building. The sign on the door read _Esroniet Antiques. _Displayed in the front window were a variety of old, Tamrielic swords. This was exactly the kind of shop that caught his interest. Smiling, he opened the door and walked inside.

Inside, the store was cramped, dim and dusty. This Roliand didn't mind—indeed, it proved to him that it was authentic. He spotted an old man sitting in one corner who looked up at him, seeming a bit surprised. "Why, hello young man," he said in an Esroniet-accented Tamrielic.

Roliand smiled and walked deeper into the store. "Hello to you, too."

The old man's eyebrows raised. "Why bless my bones! You must be from the mainland."

"Yes," said Roliand, "I just got in this morning. It's an amazing island you got here."

"Oh, yes, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else," replied the old man, "Please, feel free to browse."

Roliand nodded and began walking around the store. There was something he loved about stores like this. You could almost feel the history radiating off the merchandise. Even the worthless stuff had a story far longer than his own. Most of the wares here were from Tamriel, and if Roliand had to date them he would've guessed the bulk of them were at least a hundred years old. That meant that there were decaying books on one table, and swords with rotting hilts on another, but that was half the fun of going to a store like this. You never knew what you could find.

As Roliand turned around a table set up with a selections of globes, he noticed a wall covered in paintings and prints. Most were forgettable cheap things intended for mass consumption. In the middle of the wall, though, encased in a strikingly contemporary frame, was a thoroughly modern portrait that almost made Roliand stop dead in his tracks. The rest of the store faded from his mind as he walked towards the painting. It depicted a young, seated woman who looked like nothing Roliand had seen before. She was so pale that her unblemished skin was nearly white, with a blush to her cheeks that was surprisingly blue as opposed to red. Her hair, too, was a pale azure, done up in an Akaviri style that he had never seen before. Despite the painting being of a realist school, her features were so delicate and flawless that Roliand had a hard time believing that such a woman could really exist. Roliand heard the owner of the store walk up beside him. "You like the painting?" the old man said with a smile.

Roliand looked on the frame an noticed the title. "Khon-Ma..." he said, reading it aloud. He glanced to the shopkeeper. "She's beautiful."

"Indeed... This is actually the most recently made item in my entire shop, you know. It's only about a year old. That's when the young lady depicted was last here."

"So the painting is of a real girl?" Roliand asked in surprise.

"Oh yes," replied the shopkeeper, "And she was just as striking in real life as she is on the canvas. A local artist claimed that he just had to paint her, and I of course, just had to buy the painting. Even if it isn't an antique, it was far too exquisite to pass up."

"I can understand that," Roliand said, looking back at the painting, "I'd probably do the same thing. If I had more gold in my pocket, I'd already be haggling with you for her."

"Well, is there something in particular that you were looking for?" the old man said, gesturing about the store with his cane. "We have plenty of bargains in here, I can assure you."

Roliand reluctantly took his eyes off the portrait of Khon-Ma and looked around the store. "Well, I'm looking for something small... Maybe related to military history, too."

The old man stroked his chin. "Hmm... Well, how about an armor medallion?"

"I've never heard of them."

The old man gestured for Roliand to follow him as they walked to another end of the store. "Well, that doesn't surprise me, really. They went out of style well over a century ago," he said, ducking under an old guisarme hanging off a shelf, "Now, most noble families have a crest that they bear on their shields. But it used to be, before tabards became popular, if you didn't wear a shield, you couldn't display the family crest. Armor medallions were a way around that, and doubled as a way to hold a cape down. But here, you can see for yourself."

They stopped in front of a table covered in what looked like rather large coins. As Roliand looked them over, however, he realized that they all were engraved with the arms and crests of noble families. He smiled and picked one up, examining it in the light. The old man picked up another one. "As luck would have it, the heyday of their popularity was during Uriel V's invasion. Many of the fallen had theirs stripped from their bodies, never to return to Tamriel."

Roliand set down the one he was examining and picked up a different one. He had a good feeling about this medallion: it's bright brass surface would shine out from his own armor dramatically, and it's symbol, a flaming sword, was appropriately gallant for a hero off to explore Akavir. "How much for this one? Do you take drakes?"

"In septims? Well, lets say forty gold."

"I can do that," Roliand said with a smile, paying the shopkeeper.

"Thank you, young man," the elder replied, "It's very refreshing to see one of your age take such an interest in history."

Roliand affixed the medallion to his breastplate. He liked the look of it. "Well, I'm glad to have dug up such a find," he said. He turned and started to head for the door. "Thanks for the medallion."

"And thank you for your custom, young man," replied the shopkeeper. Roliand opened the door, but before he left he glanced inside one last time. Across the room, the portrait of young woman still hung. He looked at the painting for a couple of seconds before pushing himself back into reality and stepping outside. It would be some time before he would see Khon-Ma's face again.

* * *

The fortress of Esroniet was only about a century old, having been built by Uriel V in the not-too-distant past. Despite its relative modernity, however, its lack of maintenance left it already in a state of disrepair. The once solid stones had chipped and cracked, with grasses and scrubs taking root in whatever gap they could find. Forgotten as it was, it still offered an amazing view of the city and the coast. Lucia looked to the coarse and rocky western shore. Water sprayed into the air as strong waves smashed themselves in vain against the jagged blackrock.

Lucia was sitting on the fortress' wall, in what used to be an open-roofed tower. Now, with bushes and seeded flowers eking out their existence in the former battlements, it seemed almost as much a dead garden as a military post. She slowly moved a hand towards the the side of her head, feeling her hair that had grown out to now cover her ears. Lucia had neglected to cut it recently. She couldn't think of a time where it had grown this long.

She heard footsteps near the stairs. She glanced over to see Flamet emerge, carrying a pair of cheap, clay plates. Some sort of fish was laid on them. "Ah, there you are," he said, walking towards Lucia, "I trust that you'll find this admittedly inexpensive dish to your liking. When I travel to a new place, I always try to sample the most inexpensive cooking that I can find. I feel that it gives you a more authentic view of how the people live than if you ferret out delicacies."

He handed her one of the plates. The food looked revolting to her. The fish's flesh seemed dry and crusty, while it was covered in some sort of thick sauce with a scent that nearly made her cough. Flamet gave her an understanding smile. "Perhaps I should've chosen a more familiar dish. The fish is salted and dried out over a week, and it's covered in a concoction derived from what the fishwives remove from the fish while they clean them. Still, it's cheap and filling, not to mention the most typical meal you could cook here."

Lucia tried her best to not grimace. "It's just a little hard to believe that you'd enjoy trying such... Different food."

"Enjoy?" Flamet said. He sounded surprised—perhaps to the point where he surprised by the fact that he was surprised. "I believe that you misunderstand me. I've grown past the point where I seek out enjoyment in such simple things as food. There comes a point where it simply doesn't matter anymore. Instead, I seek out food like... This. It provides a sensation that I've never experienced before."

"Even if it's disgusting?" asked Lucia, looking at the fish.

"It only seems so on the surface. Few things in this world are _truly _disgusting," said Flamet, "And even so, growth is rarely pleasant. If one simply seeks comfort, one never grows."

The whole conversation had taken a turn that was so socially bizarre that Lucia had no idea what she was to say, or even think. She glanced back towards the shore and her eyebrows raised. Far below them, standing on a rock and looking out over the sea, was Ruma Camoran. It was hard to make out her features from here, but Lucia squinted to get a better look. Ruma was gazing out towards the west, her brown hair blown back by the tropical winds. Her stance was solid and well-balanced—it was almost as though there was a kind of... purpose to her life, clashing with the flippant and detached persona she donned on board the ship. Flamet coughed. "Lucia?"

Lucia blinked and looked back to Flamet. "My apologies if I was ignoring you."

Flamet shook his head. "Do no worry yourself. You were looking out at Miss Camoran, I take it?"

Lucia gave a small nod. "Yes, I was. How could you tell?"

"Your expression. I am perceptive in such matters," replied Flamet. He walked towards the wall and looked down on Ruma as well. "In truth, it is rather intriguing to see her standing there naturally, not having to bear the pretensions of being a Camoran."

"That's what you see?" Lucia asked.

"Yes," said Flamet, giving Lucia a curious glance, "What do you see, Lucia?"

"Me...?" Lucia mouthed softly. She looked back towards Ruma. The Altmer turned away from the sea and began walking towards town. "... I just think that... She looks like a very lonely girl."

Flamet tilted his head slightly, his expression ponderous. There was no time to think, though. A moment later, they heard a noise from across the terrace, near the stairs. Flamet dropped his thoughts on Lucia and his eyes swiftly returned to reality. Rather than grappling with ideas, he was now clearly back in the immediate world. His face had a degree of knowing to it, as though a hypothesis had just turned out to be correct. "So, I _was_ followed," he said. His tone had changed subtly. It was still calm and scholarly, but it's friendliness had been coated by a layer of steel.

He turned around slowly to see a young Dunmer woman ascend the stairs. Her steps were planned and wary—she looked ready to attack or be attacked via magic at any moment. Her burning eyes fell on Flamet. This was clearly an important, personal matter. "I could hardly believe it when I saw your name on the port's ledger, but here you are," she said, sizing up her foe, "Auguste Flamet."

Flamet looked her over. He was wary, too—it was hard to make out, but Lucia could see individual muscles in his hands moving ever so slightly, being prepped to cast a sudden spell, if the situation required it. He was clearly taking the Dunmer seriously, although he now seemed less certain of the situation. "Have we met?" he asked.

"Do you not remember?" the Dunmer said, "Sixty years ago? At Artaeum?"

A moment passed before Flamet nodded slowly in revelation. "Ah... You're one of Divayth's girls. Beyte, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are not." Beyte replied. Her eyes were still burning. Lucia tried to make out the emotion. Fear? Hate? Rage? It was some impossible mixture that she couldn't divine.

Flamet took a step forward; Beyte tensed her muscles in response. His expression was still serious, but learning the identity of Beyte had clearly raised new questions for him. "I see... Well, Miss Fyr, while it is a pleasure rekindle our acquaintanceship, clearly you can see that you are imposing on my meal with Miss Lucia."

"This is no time to dance around the point, Flamet," replied Beyte, "I know why you are here. I won't let you succeed."

Another moment as the two stared at each other silently. Lucia was confused, but she was no fool. There was too much tension here for her to make a motion. The smallest spark could set the two mages off, and the consequences of that flurry of magic would likely include her own life. Flamet took a slow step to the side; Beyte mirrored him. "Miss Fyr, I believe that we have a misunderstanding."

"Do we?" replied Beyte, "So it is simply a coincidence that while I am on a mission of cosmological importance, you just happen to show up, on the same island, hundreds of leagues from Tamriel?"

"It seems that it is a coincidence, yes."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Flamet frowned, "Miss Fyr, what possible motivations would I have to interfere in your affairs?"

Beyte's scowl remained constant. "The same motivations you acted upon six decades ago, Flamet."

A second passed. Gradually a small, almost unbelieving smile worked its way onto Flamet's face. "... I see. You think that this is all about the Psijics. I can assure you, I no longer have any interest in Artaeum. If I could return what I stole, I would. We're not enemies, you and I."

"Really? Then what exactly are your objectives here?"

"I'm afraid I do not have the liberty to disclose them."

"Then I really have no reason to trust you," Beyte said, swift and certain in her conclusion.

Flamet gave a nearly regretful frown. "... It seems that, unfortunately, you are correct."

There was a standoff. Flamet and Beyte stood across from each other, unmoving in everything but their eyes, which were taking in every detail of the situation. Lucia watched them. It was so quiet—there was only the faint whistle of the wind, the far-off crashes of the waves on the shore below them, and the sound of Lucia's own heart, beating in her ears.

A small gust of wind—Flamet's mantle rippled in the breeze. Neither moved. The arena darkened as the sun moved behind the clouds. Somewhere, a gull called out over the foamy seas.

And then it was over.

Flamet moved first, and he moved decisively. His hand whipped out, and from it shot a burst of gray energy. Beyte's eyes widened, but by the time her body could react, the strike shot straight into her chest. She gave a horrified gasp and collapsed immediately to the ground. The color swiftly began to drain from her face. Lucia, too, paled from the sight. "Mr. Flamet, what...?"

"Do not be alarmed, Lucia," said Flamet, approaching Beyte, "She will not suffer any permanent damage. She shall return to consciousness within two hours, I wager."

As Flamet approached Beyte, Lucia could see him draw a knife from a pocket of his robe. It had small blade, but an exceptionally keen edge—it was the kind used by surgeons to operate on the body. He continued to walk towards Beyte and kneeled down beside her. He placed two fingers on her neck, and then gave her a brief, yet focused inspection. Lucia could see him start to pull up Beyte's blouse. Lucia made a concerned noise, uncertain of even what words to use for this situation. Flamet looked back to her and smiled. His expression, once again, had his old friendliness to it. "I know that my actions here seem questionable," he said, "But I would ask that you trust me. What I do here I do for the young woman's own sake."

Lucia didn't look entirely convinced, but Flamet returned immediately to Beyte. He took out the knife and moved it towards Beyte's stomach. His body blocked Lucia's line of sight, and frankly she didn't fully want to see what he was doing. She could see his shoulder press downwards, however, and the knife surely had cut into Beyte's flesh. Flamet steadily moved his hand across Beyte's midriff. There must have been a decent incision. Lucia flinched and half-covered her eyes with her hand. Flamet looked over Beyte for a few moments. His expression was very serious. A few seconds later, he shook his head slowly. "This is... Unfortunate," he said heavily, pulling Beyte's shirt down so it would once again cover her.

Lucia frowned. His voice was far too grave. "Is she going to be all right?"

"No," Flamet responded. He needed no time to consider the question. "At least in the long term. She has a year, or perhaps two if she is lucky, but there is little hope for her."

An odd burning sensation made its way up Lucia's throat. She didn't even know who this girl was, and yet she felt heartbroken. "What's wrong with her?"

This question caused Flamet to think for a moment. "It is... A misfortune of her birth. I do not believe you really wish to hear the details of her condition, Lucia. It is uncomfortable even for myself."

Lucia looked to Beyte. Even unconscious, her expression was shocked. Lucia looked back to Flamet, who wiped off the knife with a kerchief. Lucia noticed that there wasn't just blood on it, but also an oily, yellow liquid, almost in equal proportions. She didn't ask Flamet about it. He was right—honestly, she didn't want to know. As Flamet returned the knife to his pocket, Lucia thought back to the conversation between Beyte and him. "Mr. Flamet?"

"Yes?" he said, still clearly thinking about Beyte's condition.

"Back then, a few moments ago... The Dunmer lady claimed to have seen you sixty years ago, on Artaeum."

Flamet glanced to the side. He smiled, but it was less confident than usual. "Ah, well... It was a long time ago, yes."

She looked at Flamet. His hair might be graying somewhat, but she didn't peg him that much older than fifty. If he had been robbing one of the most powerful and mysterious enclaves in the world sixty years ago... "Mr. Flamet, just how old are you?"

Flamet looked back to Lucia. He renewed his smile. "Lucia, you surprise me. You should know that it is rather impolite to ask your elders about their age."

That was that. Lucia could tell by his voice that this was the end of this line of conversation. Flamet looked to the fish and frowned. "My apologies, Lucia, but I am afraid that I have lost my appetite."

Lucia nodded and stood up. "I want to leave."

"That might be for the best, yes... Why don't we head down closer to town?"

Flamet began to walk towards the stairs. Before Lucia left, however, she looked back to Beyte and frowned. She walked over to the fallen woman crouched down. She slipped her arms under Beyte's body. Flamet watched quietly. Despite her small frame, Lucia seemed to have no trouble lifting Beyte up. Lucia walked to a soft, mossy patch of ground and gently set Beyte down. She then untied a small shall she had worn about her neck and set it under Beyte's head as an impromptu pillow. Lucia stood up and walked to the stairs without any other words. Flamet watched her descend, and then glanced back to Beyte. She looked somewhat more at peace now.

To think that Beyte's birth came through such sin, and now the product of that blasphemy would be the recipiant of selfless service from a moth priestess.

Flamet's expression hovered in between thoughtful and amused. "What a phenomenal world we live in..." he said softly to himself. Then, he turned to the stairs and followed Lucia, descending into town.

* * *

Roliand walked through Esroniet's marketplace, glancing from stall to stall. It wasn't just the goods that interested him, but the people. The market held most anything that could be found on the island, and so there was a fascinating mixture of peoples mingering about. A poverty-ailed beggar spent what little coin she had on a husk of bread one stall down from a local merchant prince, who was demanding the choice cut of beef for his upcoming soiree. A battle-scarred mercenary was haggling over a repair hammer across from a priest of Meridia, who was browsing a display of incense. Being able to openly see such contrast fascinated Roliand. In Tamriel, the classes segregated themselves, but in Esroniet they blended together, at least in the market.

And as luck world have it, Roliand himself would get to experience this lack of division first hand. As he walked down the street, he passed by a young noblewoman, clad in blue, escorted by a pair of guards. He didn't think much of it—he had already walked by more than one aristocrat this afternoon. Right as they passed each other by, however, the noblewoman stopped dead in her tracks, looking at Roliand's chest. "How...?" she began, her confused voice barely rising above the sound of the crowd around her.

Roliand slowed down and glanced at the lady. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, surprised at the attention he was receiving.

The younger of the two guards smirked. "My lady, didn't you parents tell you that you're not to frolic off with commoners—"

The noblewoman didn't acknowledge his point. She pointed at Roliand's chest. "That's mine," she said with a curious certainty.

Roliand glanced down at his chest. She was pointing at his new armor medallion. "I beg you pardon? I just bought this a couple hours ago."

The elder of the two guards glanced at the medallion, and his eyes widened. The lady shared his surprise. "No, I do not mean that it's—Let me begin again. That medallion rightfully belongs to my family."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," replied Roliand, "Miss...?"

"Lynette Flyte, daughter of Viscount Auberon Flyte," she said with a rushed curtsy, "And that medallion you're wearing it very familiar to me. It bears the crest of House Flyte."

The elder knight nodded. "Indeed. There is a set of similar medallions in Anticlere Manor. One has always been missing."

Roliand rubbed the back of his neck. "Really?"

Lady Flyte sighed. "How much do you want for it?"

"How much do I want?"

"Yes," Lady Flyte said, her voice growing impatient, "You're carrying an heirloom of my family. I'm certainly not going to let you run off with it."

Roliand mulled over the proposition for a moment. "One hundred drakes," he said slowly, getting ready to haggle.

"Done," replied Lady Flyte, "Sir Lancerow, give this man his gold."

'Damn,' Roliand thought as he took a small parcel of money from the knight, 'I should've asked for more...' He removed the medallion from his chest and handed it to Lady Flyte.

She looked her reclaimed treasure over. Despite being reunited with her family's property, she still looked confused, even when she held it in her own hands. "Where did you find this?" she asked Roliand, not taking her eyes off the medallion.

Roliand pointed down an alley. "There's an antique store down that way. I'm not exactly positive where. I'm a little lost myself."

"Well, it's better than nothing," said Lady Flyte, handing the medallion to one of her knights, "Sir Lancerow, Sir Rudvich, we have to return to the ship soon, so we'll need to find this store as quickly as possible."

At that, without so much as a farewell, Lady Flyte set off, leaving Roliand alone in the middle of market. On the one hand, he missed his medallion, but on the other, it was nice to return long-lost property to it's true owner. Of course, the lady might've been playing him like a fool to get a better price. She was a Breton, after all. Roliand shrugged. She was right about one thing, though: soon he was going to have to return to his ship. Beyte, of course, probably had a sickeningly perfect day, accomplishing everything a woman possibly could on Esroniet, and he wasn't eager to hear her chide him about 'wasting precious time'.

He made for a nearby bookstore. He had made a fair amount of gold by selling his medallion: enough to buy a book or two, at the very least. And seeing as though Akavir was still weeks away, he knew that he was certainly going to need at least a few thick tomes. They'd be better company than Beyte, after all.

* * *

Nels Llendo poked his head into the fourth tavern today, hoping to find the woman who he had been searching for ever since he caught a glimpse of her earlier in the marketplace. It wasn't Lynette Flyte—while she was indeed important, the other woman's presence demanded that Llendo be a bit flexible on the job. He scanned the bar and, to his pleasant surprise, saw his Altmer quarry sitting at the counter, drinking alone. He put on his suavest smile and walked over the the bar, sitting down next to her. He nodded to the barkeep. "How about a glass of spiced rum?"

The barkeep wordlessly took out a jug and poured Llendo a glass of liquor. He picked it up and glanced at the Altmer, who was sullenly looking at the counter. Llendo gracefully downed the drink in a single gulp and let out a slow, confident sigh. "Ah... Now this is why you go to Esroniet. Can't get a drink like this on the mainland, that's for sure."

He gave the Altmer another look. "Care for a glass?" he asked.

The woman snorted. "Leave me alone."

Llendo chuckled. "My, I certainly need to work on my charm, don't I? Bartender, pour the vixen some rum."

The Altmer turned her head to look at Llendo. Her eyes were shining in anger. This he expected. He gave her a look over, letting his gaze linger on her curves. It didn't do him any favors. "Who do you think you are?" she said, openly offended.

"Nels Llendo, famed troubadour, at your service," he said with a wink.

While the Altmer was fuming at him, he kept his eyes fixed on her. But while she thought he was inspecting her bust, he was far more interested in her hands—they were tense enough to show that she was on edge, but not to the degree that she would be casting any spells quite yet. Just as he planned. This called for a little more brinksmanship. "Come now, darling," he said while the Altmer was still choosing her very select words for him, "I have it from good authority that I can be _very_ charming. Why don't we toast a glass to new acquaintanceship?"

"You're pathetic," the Altmer said with a sneer.

The sly smile on Llendo's face didn't as much as falter. "My, this is depressing. My dear, if you keep saying such hurtful things it'll be the end of my self-confidence."

Llendo's persistence was able to earn the Altmer's surprise, if not her respect. "Can't you tell when you're not wanted?"

"I have this little feeling that I'll win you over yet."

The Altmer's face was caught in an expression torn between disgust and awe. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

"Oh, I have a guess..." Llendo replied playfully.

"Really?" the Altmer asked. There was only the faintest hint of caution in her voice. Naturally, Llendo made it out.

"Of course," said Llendo, "How could I forget a face as enticing as yours, Ruma darling?"

The tone of the conversation was turned upside down, at least on Ruma's side. Her eyes widened in shock and her body tensed. While Llendo could tell that her mind had ignited with fears and possible escape plans, she still wasn't ready to engage him in a fight quite yet—not in the middle of town at least. She was like a cornered animal, currently defensive but with the potential to lash out at any moment. Llendo felt his own heartbeats speed up, but unlike Ruma, he was far too trained to show it. "So, how about that rum?"

"Who sent you?"

Llendo put a hand over his heart. "You ascribe such mercenary motives to my tender emotions?"

"Don't toy with me," Ruma said, almost fiercely, cutting him off.

"Truthfully, Ruma dear, no one sent me," Llendo said, his voice somewhat more serious, but still calm, "I'm here on an unrelated job. I just saw you in the marketplace and figured that I simply had to make the acquaintance of a woman of your unique standing."

"You can't trick me. That's not all there is this."

"That's a sharp mind you've got there, darling. Barkeep," Llendo called over his shoulder, "Two more rums."

The barkeep glanced at the two warily. If they were in Cyrodiil, the reveal of Ruma's identity would already have caused a small riot. In Esroniet, it was a mere curiosity. Llendo looked back to his unlikely companion. She still looked like she was dangerously close to snapping. "Listen," Ruma said, "I won't tolerate games. Just tell me what you're here for."

Llendo sighed. "And I prepared such witty banter... Well, if you insist skipping straight to business, I suppose I can comply," he said, resting an elbow against the counter and picking up his newly-filled glass with his other hand. "I've learned that three ships entered Esroniet to resupply this morning, all heading east. That's pretty unusual, as there's only one thing east of here worth traveling to."

"Akavir."

"Precisely," replied Llendo, "And it's a mighty odd coincidence that three Tamrielic ships are all heading to Akavir at the same time. One, of course, is my own. I know plenty about that. And the information I've gathered about the second indicates that it's a Telvanni ship, with it's docking fees paid for by a member of the Fyr family."

For a fleeting moment, curiosity got the better of Ruma's caution. "Divayth Fyr is here?"

"One of his wives, more likely," said Llendo. He moved his fingers, causing the rum to slowly spin in his glass. "And that leaves just one more ship, which is carrying the supposedly-dead Ruma Camoran. You have to see that the plot has just thickened for me considerably, Ruma darling."

"If you knew why I was here, why are you going through this charade?"

"Charade? My lovely, do you think that this is a very elaborate threat? On the contrary, I'm not interested in harming you. The two of us could do better if we pooled out knowledge, I feel."

Ruma furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it," Llendo said, "A man in my field excels when he's gotten the most information he can dig up. Who you're with, why you're going to Akavir—these are all very very interesting topics for me, and most likely relevant to my current employment."

"And just what is your current employment?"

"Ah, Ruma darling, I can't quite tell you that until you agree to our little exchange. I can promise you, though, I can tell you whatever information regarding my task or Akavir you'd like to know."

Ruma didn't reply for a moment. She silently weighed her options for a few seconds. Llendo knocked back the second glass of rum in the meanwhile and smiled. "Phenomenal stuff."

"What do you know about Ocato?"

The question took the normally unflappable Nels Llendo by surprise. "The High Chancellor? I suppose I know more about him than the common man."

"What about the aftermath of the so-called 'Oblivion Crisis'? The fate of the Mythic Dawn?" Ruma's questions came fast, almost passionately so.

"Again, darling, I paid more attention to all that than most."

Ruma mulled the idea over for another moment. "... Fine. I agree to this exchange," she said, although she still looked like she had just swallowed something unpleasant.

Llendo nodded slowly. "Ah, you see? I told you I'd win you over."

"Let's just get this done with," said Ruma.

Llendo gave a sardonic frown. "But you've haven't even touched that drink I ordered for you."

Ruma picked up the glass and turned it upside down. "Consider it touched," she said, dropping the glass onto the counter. "Now get talking."

"My oh my," Llendo said softly, watching the amber liquid pool on the counter, "You've gone and left my heart shattered, Ruma darling."

"Let's start at the beginning," said Ruma, not wasting any time, "What happened immediately after the Great Gate was destroyed?"

"Well, my dear, that is quite the tale..."

"_Enough _of your tales, 'troubadour'," Ruma interrupted, "Just answer me plainly!"

"All right, all right," said Llendo, gesturing for Ruma to settle down, "First chivalry dies, then the art of conversation. What a boorish age this new era is."

Llendo was only being half-sarcastic. True, his primary and immediate goal was to get whatever information he could out of Ruma. But then again, she was quite pretty. It would've been ideal if the two of them got to know each other a little better, but between Ruma's imperious bearing and swift questions, it looked as though he'd only be able to gather information. It really was a pity...

* * *

Rudvich knocked on the door of the antique shop. There was no response. It was locked, making it seem that the store was closed. Still, the owner still could be inside. The hour wasn't so late. Rudvich knocked again, harder his time. Moments passed without any sort of response. Lady Flyte stood nearby, biting on her fingernail anxiously. Lancerow, who was near Lady Flyte, shrugged. "It's no use, my lady. The store's locked up tight."

Lady Flyte didn't seem deterred. "This man has been brokering out heirlooms of my family—the family both of you have sworn knightly oaths to. We cannot just let this go by without an investigation."

Rudvich turned from the door. "I sympathize with your sentiments, but the store looks deserted. If the owner is not present, or will not open the door for us, there is nothing that we can do."

"And besides we need to get back to the ship soon, anyway," added Lancerow, "If we wait any longer we'll miss the tides."

Lady Flyte gave an indignant sigh. "Do you not care as to why the rightful property of House Flyte has turned up in Esroniet? Who knows what else is inside?"

Rudvich frowned at her. She had seen this particular expression several times before. He was displeased by her conduct and intended on correcting her, just as he had when she was a little girl. "Lady Lynette, I have served your father for decades. I know well the importance of our regalia, but I also know that our mission to Akavir takes precedence. It was assigned to you by the high chancellor himself."

There was nothing Lady Flyte could say to respond to that. She knew Rudvich was right, but accepting it wasn't so easy. "... Fine," she said, starting to walk towards the docks, "But when we return to Tamriel after our task in Akavir, I will be returning to this store and will have a very long talk—"

Her words came to an abrupt halt. An arrow soared inches from her face, narrowly missing her. She could feel the wind from it brush against her face as it imbedded itself deeply into a nearby building. Her eyes went wide, and her heart skipped a beat. Her body tensed, and a for a long, long second, her mind could do nothing but process the attack. Someone had tried to shoot her with that arrow. Someone had just tried to kill her. She nearly tripped in a moment of headiness, but was able to regain enough of her faculties to turn around and try to get a bearing on the situation.

While Lynette had been unable to respond for several seconds, she noticed that Lancerow and Rudvich had no such difficulties—both had already positioned themselves in front of her. Lancerow had drawn his longsword, Rudvich his claymore. There were at least six assailants, all clad in leather. Four had war axes, two bows. Lancerow gave a yell as the two knights ran towards the enemy. Lynette stumbled backwards against a wall, unable to do anything but watch.

Lancerow arrived first. Using the momentum of the charge, he swung hard at a bald man, who just managed to parry him. That was expected, though—Lancerow recovered his balance before the man and struck again, harder this time. The bald man nearly lost his footing with the parry. Then, quick as a whip, Lancerow kicked him hard in the chest. The man gave a grunt as he fell to the ground. A moment later, Lancerow skewered him with a grating laugh. It was an unorthodox move, but deathly effective—Lancerow might've been young, but he was a genius on the battlefield. Lancerow tore his sword from the man's chest and refocused his attentions on another attackers.

Rudvich's fighting lacked Lancerow's frantic pace. He was a veteran of countless battles, giving him a steady, methodical style. He gave out a quick to a foe that was easily dodged. His enemy mistook it for a display of Rudvich's skill and attacked himself. Rudvich parried. The other man swung again, and once more—both easily parried by the knight. As soon as the attacker realized there was more to Rudvich than it seemed, it was too late. The attacker swung, but Rudvich was familiar enough with his swings to strike near his hands, disarming him. The attacker gasped, but was cut short as the claymore embedded itself between his neck and shoulder. He was dead before his hit the ground. Rudvich adjusted his weight to get a proper footing and moved on to the next enemy. Maybe he wasn't as skilled as Lancerow was, but experience counts just as much in a fight.

As the two continued their bloody assault, the assailants seemed surprised by their skill. One tried to retreat, only to be stabbed in the back by Lancerow. Lynette's knights had already halved their numbers. The day would be theirs. Still, she couldn't stop trembling, and her mind was still cloudy from horror. If she could've settled down a little, she would've wept. Then, though, a noise from her side. She looked around suddenly to see a man slowly walk out from a nearby alley. He was tall, broad-chested, and had a grim expression on his face. He drew a mace and approached.

Lynette tried to step backwards, but stumbled. A tearing sound as her dress snagged on broken piece of wood from the wall. She grabbed at the fabric, but couldn't rip it. She looked up at the man. He grew closer. She wanted desperately to run, but she couldn't seem to control her body. She shook her head and mouthed something unintelligible. He said nothing. From across the road, she could hear Lancerow yell something and footsteps. The mace-wielding man noticed, too, and increased his pace. He drew closer and closer still. He was only a few feel away now. He lifted the mace high—she could see it gleam in the sun. Lynette tried to cover her face with her delicate arms and clenched her eyes tightly.

A scream and a horrible burning light.

But there was no pain.

Lynette felt nothing, but felt warm. She opened her eyes and took a gasp of shock. The man had, somehow, caught on fire. He yelled out as he dropped the mace to the ground, which clamored against the cobblestones. He swayed like a creaking oak, and then collapsed onto the ground. The back of his armor had been burned through by what must've been a stunningly powerful flame. As Lynette tried to make sense of the whole ordeal she heard a familiar voice just a few yards off. "Ruma darling, that was _brilliant! _I could kiss you for that!"

A few buildings down, right outside a tavern, stood Nels Llendo. At his side was an Altmer woman. She extended an arm out in front of her, and a few wispy strands of smoke drifted out from her hand. Lynette blinked in utter confusion. "How...?"

Then, a roar as Lancerow charged at them, drawing his sword. Llendo narrowed his eyes cautiously while Ruma's face twisted in rage as she readied another spell. Lady Flyte reached out to her knight. "Wait!"

Lancerow slowed, but kept his sword at the ready. He was gauging both Llendo and Ruma, almost as though he was determining which one to strike first. With Lancerow halted, Llendo seemed a little more comfortable. "My, are these the wages of virtue? We save your lovely lady—essentially doing you job for you—and you try to strike us down? My good jailor, are you jealous?"

"Keep laughing, rogue," Lancerow growled, "But I can see what you're doing. You can't deflect me. You think a band of armed robbers just popped up out of nowhere on the streets?"

Lady Flyte felt a presence at her side. Rudvich had walked over to her and was standing next to her. He offered her his hand and helped her stand up. A large chunk of her dress ripped off, revealing a large ribbon of her thigh, and yet she couldn't bring herself to care about the impropriety. She walked slowly towards Lancerow. Her legs still felt weak, but she had regained control over herself. "Sir Lancerow, please restrain yourself. Mr. Llendo has done me a great service."

"My lady," replied Lancerow, his voice frustrated, "Do you not find it suspicious that he managed to break out of the hold on the same day as an attempt at your life?"

Llendo gave one of his clever grins. "My good jailor, if my goal was to do in your dear lady, whyever would I rescue her? Indeed, I would've had several good opportunities to pick her off in the chaos, had I so chose. I know we've had our differences, brother, but surely you can't find me _that _inept."

Lancerow threw his arms open in exasperation. "Oh, come on! Do you really think that this is some coincidence? Llendo sneaks on our ship immediately before our voyage? He breaks out of the hold as soon as we leave, and less than a day later some pack of thugs try to kill Lyn? Please, Llendo, tell me how this all fits together? Are you really going to tell me that this is just an elaborate happenstance?"

"Well... Yes, I suppose I would," said Llendo, tilting his head slightly, "It's quite curious, but then again, sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?"

"Enough," said Lady Flyte, "Sir Lancerow, I understand and appreciate your wariness, but Llendo has proved that he does not harbor any malicious aims towards me. He is correct in that regard. And if we argue here any longer, we will miss the tide, and I refuse to stay another hour on this island."

Lancerow glared at Llendo, but said nothing. Llendo, meanwhile, was rather pleased with this turn of affairs. "Excellent! Shall we get going?"

Lady Flyte shook her head. "You must stay here, Mr. Llendo."

"Ah, you wound me!" Llendo declared, "After I prove my devotions by saving you—at the perfect, most dramatically timed moment possible, mind you—you would still spurn my tender affections?"

"Mr. Llendo," Lady Flyte responded with an altogether more dry tone of voice, "I thank you for your service, but my business is in Akavir, and precludes you. We shall leave you here, in Esroniet. I'm sure a man of your unusual talents will find some way to cover the costs of returning to Tamriel."

Llendo sighed. "Is this how our great love story is to end?

"If you'll excuse me," replied Lady Flyte forcefully, "I must leave immediately. Goodbye, Mr. Llendo."

Wasting no more time, Lady Flyte began walking away, towards the harbor. Lancerow and Rudvich stayed close at her side. Llendo watched her leave quietly, but then renewed his easygoing air with a theatrical shrug. "Alas, my dear Lady Flyte. How beautiful, how cruel! Ruma darling, how is it that women can be so—?"

His audience, however, was not there. Ruma was gone, and must've left wordlessly some time ago. Llendo pouted. "Oh, for crying out loud. I'm the dashing rogue! Women are supposed to be throwing themselves at my feet, not running away from me. Ach, the gods are cruel indeed."

He broke off into a quick pace immediately after. Even he realized that this wasn't the best time for jokes. Despite some unexpected turns, the day had gone unexpectedly well. If he didn't beat the Anticlerians to their ship, however, he wasn't going to make it to Akavir with Lady Flyte, and that he couldn't allow. Still, it shouldn't be too difficult for him, he figured. And seeing how many septims were riding on his success, he'd excel even if it were impossible. He was Nels Llendo, after all.

* * *

That evening, three ships sailed out from Esroniet, their holds now stocked with enough food and water to make the rest of the trip across the ocean. As for their passengers, their one day at Esroniet had been universally more eventful than they had planned, and for many it created far more questions than it answered.

But those questions would have to wait. Now, a far greater issue lingered, somewhere out on that eastern horizon. As Esroniet faded into the distance, so too did the last western settlement in the world. Now, there was only the east. Akavir.

Every day, the Dragon Land grew closer. It would not be much longer now before they would arrive at its mysterious shores.


	8. Across Uncertain Seas

Again, for reasons she herself could not properly determine, Lucia found herself dining with Auguste Flamet. Ever since they left Esroniet, Lucia had found herself gravitating towards his cabin come mealtime. Consequentially, the two ate together at a frequency that would have unsettled her just a few weeks ago. Then again, her world had changed so radically since her master's departure, who was to say that dining with a dread necromancer was so odd? Master of the undead or no, he was certainly a conversationalist, and knew an impressive amount about history. Often she would ask him about his opinions on an obscure piece of lore, to see if he was even familiar with it. Tonight, as was often the case, he was finishing a nuanced argument on one such query. "... Most of the later emperors, in an attempt to slander Queen Potema, tried to argue that many of her construction projects—the Blue Palace, Castle Dour, the Lighthouse of Solitude—were instigated by her steward before her descent into madness. However, the research I've read actually indicates that no matter how little she cared for her subjects, she was in truth quite interested in advancing and improving the infrastructure of her city."

Lucia hadn't expected that they would still be on the topic of the Wolf Queen. "I suppose it just seems odd to me that a woman who commanded armies of the undead would be so involved in... Urban development."

Flamet jabbed a wedge of cheese with his fork. "Much Imperial propaganda has been issued to make Potema seem more like an evil faerie-tale villain than the complicated human that she actually was. I daresay that Waughin Jarth hasn't helped matters with his historical fiction. Potema was a cruel woman, yes, but not to the degree that popular culture would lead you to believe."

"Do you say that from experience?" asked Lucia.

Flamet simply smiled and brought the cheese to his mouth. Lucia was aware that her statement was something of a trick, but she still had no idea how old Flamet was. Sometimes, when he would talk about events such as the War of the Isle or the rise of Camoran Usurper, she felt as though he had actually been there. He evaded all of her attempts to find the truth, but never seemed offended, or even irritated, by her persistence. She returned to her meal, but frowned as she looked across the table. "Mr. Flamet, did we forget to bring any bread?"

The bread bowl was indeed empty. Flamet swallowed his food. "Ah, I suppose so. What a pity—it would be one of your last chances to have bread that was not entirely stale. I know that it is your favorite part of dinner."

Lucia frowned, more at Flamet's familiarity with her habits than her lack of food. She stood up. "I'm going to go to the galley to pick up some bread. I'll be back in a moment."

Flamet nodded, and Lucia left his room, entering the main hall of the _Death's Reach. _She wasn't sure if she was happy to have left his presence or not. Despite his shadowy past, he was always very kind to her, and no one would speak to her other than him... But then again, perhaps he could see her loneliness, and felt as though he could take advantage of it... But in that case, what would a man of his power and grandeur want with the company of a novitiate moth priestess? Did she serve some sort of greater purpose for some occult plan?

These questions infuriated her. Before all of this madness, she had felt such comfort with Master Caecus. No matter what crises struck, he was always there to provide companionship and guidance to her. She had never questioned his wisdom and mentorship. He was her master. And if he of all people could betray her, could she really trust anybody?

She entered the galley, but slowed as she saw who was there as well. Across the room was Ruma Camoran, leaning against the wall. She was drinking from a waterskin, near the food stores, looking across the room with a distant, brooding expression on her face. Her eyes flickered to Lucia. Ruma's gaze made her suddenly feel nervous, and she noticed her cheeks grow warm. Still, she swallowed resolutely and began to walk across the room. Ruma looked away, but Lucia still felt as though her mouth had gone dry.

It took only a few seconds to cross the room to where the food was stored, but it seemed like a much longer trek for Lucia. All she needed to to was take a loaf of bread and leave. Nothing more. It should've been easy. She stopped near the food. She was only a couple of feet away from Ruma. She glanced out the corner of her eye to see if Ruma was watching her. She wasn't. Relief and disappointment coursed through Lucia. She felt a little more at ease, and grabbed a particularly crusty slice of bread from the bin. As soon as she did, however, the _Death's Reach _smashed against a deep-ocean wave, which was not such an unusual event. It still caught both women by surprise, however. Lucia dropped her bread, which landed at Ruma's feet; Ruma's waterskin spilled, splashing onto Lucia's robes. Ruma nearly growled in annoyance. "This damn ship..."

Even so simple a statement put Lucia at a loss of words. "I..."

Ruma glanced at her and kicked the bread off her shoes. "I wasn't talking to you, girl."

"I apologize," Lucia said, the words spilling from her mouth quickly. Again she felt herself blushing, despite her best attempts not to.

"Why are you groveling like that...?" Ruma said, only half-paying attention to the conversation as she capped her waterskin.

Lucia didn't respond.

The silence caused Ruma to return her focus to Lucia, who was blushing intensely while staring at the ground. Ruma raised a brow in surprise. There was still no response from Lucia, who seemed to believe that if she was silent enough she would be ignored. Ruma Camoran kept her gaze on Lucia, her eyes torn between confusion and a growing intuition, trying to determine for a moment how to respond to this.

The seconds in which she thought, however, were too long. As Ruma parted her lips to speak, Flamet entered through the door. "Lucia, are you all right...?"

Lucia turned around, taken aback. Her cheeks were still red. "Mr. Flamet...?"

She could make out Flamet's eyes move between her and Ruma, but he seemed at ease. "I'm glad that shock we had just now didn't cause you to fall," he said, walking towards a wine-rack, "I nearly tripped myself. By the by, would you care for any wine? I developed a curious craving for a good red just seconds after you left."

"N-No," said Lucia, regaining her composure, "I'm fine with just water."

Ruma suddenly moved away from the wall and walked across the galley without so much as a word. Lucia took a breath in, but it was to no avail. Before she could act, Ruma had gone, likely headed for her room. Flamet inspected a bottle of wine as she left. "Just water...? But wine is civilization in a bottle. We must begin to develop your palette, my dear."

Once again, Lucia didn't respond. Flamet turned from his bottle. "Lucia? You seem flustered."

"Oh, I... I just had water spilled on me, you see," Lucia said quickly.

It was a pathetic lie, but Flamet didn't see through it. Or perhaps he did, but chose not to comment on it. "Alas. If you wish to don a fresh change of clothes before we continue our meal, by all means do so. But do come back to my cabin—I must right the injustice of your inexposure to the art of the vine. Whatever they may say about the Dark Brotherhood, Sithis must know a fantastic sommelier."

Had Lucia been paying more attention, she would of noticed something about Flamet's tone when he said "Sithis." However, Lucia was paying more attention in looking for a way to remove herself from the situation. "Of course, Mr. Flamet. If you'll excuse me..."

She moved out of the galley so quickly that she was nearly jogging. Flamet watched her quietly, and then returned to the rack. His expression was introspective and reserved. He chose a relatively unaged bottle. He looked over the label. "To be young again..." he said softly to himself.

His eyes suddenly flashed, as though he had noticed something. Immediately, he tore his attention away from the bottle. He glanced at once to a corner of the room. His face had swiftly become much more concerned. There seemed to be nothing there, but he didn't look any more at ease. Without wasting any time, he turned and left the galley, now concerned with more than simply Lucia. It was once again a lonely room.

Indeed, it was empty. Not a soul stirred in it. All that remained was the creaking of the ship, the crackling flame of the lanterns, and quiet, yet heavy breathing coming from a shadowy corner of the room...

* * *

Lady Flyte opened the door the the lower hold and entered alone. In front of her was another door, this one with a small hole near its top. She walked towards it and stood on her toes to look through. Lounging on the floor of the room beyond the door was, just at her knight had told her, Nels Llendo.

Again.

She frowned, but as soon as Llendo noticed that he was being watched, his face broke out into a brilliant smile. "Ah, my lady comes to warm my heart. I'm so glad you would deign to visit me. I so shamelessly begged the good Sir Rudvich to let me see you that my dignity has all but vanished: if you had once again spurned me, I'd really have nothing left."

The Lady Flyte looked at him humorlessly. "You know, you're very lucky that it was Sir Rudvich who discovered you. Had Sir Lancerow found you again, the encounter would have no doubt ended in bloodshed."

"Well, then I suppose the trick would be for me to make sure that I was caught by the right guard," replied Llendo.

Lady Flyte closed her eyes and exhaled. She had met many people in her time. Most of them she could read and figure out their intentions. A potential viscountess like herself had to be well versed in speechcraft. Llendo, though... Llendo's agenda still eluded her. "I suppose that there is no point in asking you why you boarded my ship again," she said as evenly as she could.

"Do you need me to lay out my affections once more?"

"I would prefer that you tell me the truth."

"Ah, that is problematic. My dear, the truth is the most elusive maiden that I know... Present company excluded, of course."

"I should have figured that you'd say that," Lady Flyte said. Her voice wasn't as frustrated as it was resigned. "However, even if you will not tell me your true motives, I have called upon you this evening for a specific reason. I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Llendo."

Lady Flyte opened a small pouch and withdrew an iron key, which she inserted into the door's lock. Llendo sat up from his previously sprawled posture, his face now intrigued. Lady Flyte opened the door wide and stepped through. She hadn't realized before just how small Llendo's cell was. Between that and the stale food, he must've been living a very uncomfortable life. She looked around the room once, almost nervous about what she was prepairing to say. "... I have heard, Mr, Llendo, that you are skilled in many different fields."

Llendo pushed himself up onto his feet. "I'm what they call a jack-of-all-trades: in other words, I'm equally mediocre in many crafts."

"You keep selling yourself short," Lady Flyte said, looking at Llendo appraising, "... I honestly cannot tell if you're doing so as part of some elaborate joke, or to try in vain to throw me off the scent of your competence."

Llendo smiled in return, but this wasn't his casual, joking grin. Instead, there was something serious about it, and something serious about his eyes... He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, still smiling, but Lady Flyte could tell that the atmosphere of the room was swiftly changing. "Interestingly put, my lady. Let me ask you a question, then. Why did you come to visit me?"

Lady Flyte looked away for a moment. She shut her eyes tightly and took in a deep breath. She reached for her pouch and grabbed something inside it. There was the sound of gliding metal as Lady Flyte drew forth the ebony tanto. Llendo tilted his head up and narrowed his eyes. Meanwhile, Lady Flyte stared at the blade for a moment before speaking. "I... I have come to ask you to train me in how to use this weapon."

The blade didn't reflect the dim lantern light in the room. Its ebon surface seemed to absorb what little brightness there was around it. Llendo inspected the blade from his position, not yet approaching the lady. "You want to learn how to fight, then?"

"Are you so surprised?" replied Lady Flyte, looking at him. Despite her previous hesitation, her expression was now more resolved.

"Well... Yes, actually, I am," said Llendo, "Combat's a nasty business. It's certainly not something that I'd wish to expose my delicate rose of Anticlere to."

Lady Flyte was undeterred. "Those thugs in Esroniet were not the first to make an attempt on my life. I do not believe that they will be the last, either. I must learn to rely on myself for my own defense."

"Then why not ask your faithful knights?" said Llendo. He was now paying close attention to Lady Flyte, as though he were reading her every motion, "The good sirs Lancerow and Rudvich are both poets on the battlefield."

"If that were an option, don't you think I would have already done so?" replied Lady Flyte with a dry smile. "No, to them I am a gentle lady of Anticlere. It would be outside my station and breeding to take up the blade. Sir Rudvich would never allow it, and Sir Lancerow lacks the subtlety to hide this kind of training from him. You are my sole option."

It took Llendo a few moments to consider Lady Flyte's proposition. This surprised her. She had assumed he would quickly accept with the dramatic flair he was so enamored with, but she had never before seen him so grave. Even his smile had vanished, and for the first time Lady Flyte could see, perhaps, Llendo's true self. He spoke. "Are you certain you wish to learn?" The words carried a sort of finality to them.

"Yes," responded Lady Flyte, certain of her answer.

"I see..." Llendo said, closing his eyes. "... First, let me see your weapon."

Lady Flyte took a step forward and offered Llendo the tanto. Llendo grabbed the blade with one hand, but took Lady Flyte's own hand with his other. Lady Flyte's eyes widened. Llendo rubbed his thumb over her palm once. His finger was very rough. "Your hand is so soft..."

He dropped her hand. Lady Flyte's arm fell limply to her side. She was taken aback by his forwardness, but wasn't sure what to make of it. Llendo turned his attention to the blade. "And this... What exceptional craftsmanship. A bit weighty, but balanced to counteract that... Such a flawless edge... Remarkable. Simply remarkable."

Llendo handed the tanto back to Lady Flyte. She grabbed it tightly. He nodded once, and seemed altogether less intense than he had been just a few moments ago. "Well, I suppose you're now my pupil. Ready for you first lesson?"

"Yes," said Lady Flyte with an eager nod.

Llendo gave a smile, which had finally returned to its natural, confident state. "Well then, let's get to work. For your first lesson, I'll need to to hold your blade out in front of you, keeping your arm parallel to the floor."

Lady Flyte took a step backwards and did as she was told. She kept her arm level, but could feel the weight of the blade tugging at her muscles. She frowned. "What next?"

"Whatever do you mean? This is the drill," replied Llendo.

"You intend for me to simply hold this blade out indefinitely?" Lady Flyte said with an altogether uncharitable expression.

"But of course. You must see this as a very important part of your training, my lady—far more important than any swing or ripost. There will come a time, right before the final battle, where you will be face to face with your great foe—someone who you oppose on a fundamental and philosophical level. When that fated hour arrives, you must be able to point at him with your blade perfectly, without wavering, and utter a suitably dramatic line to commence the fight. If you can't keep the blade still, then the effect is so much more dull."

The Lady Flyte couldn't respond for several seconds. "... Are you serious?"

"I am as serious as the grave," said Llendo, "So often history creates situations that should be dramatic and grandiose, only to have the truth of the matter be far more prosaic. You have a sacred duty to make history suitable for troubadours such as myself to recite it without having to rely on too many embellishments."

Lady Flyte frowned. It wouldn't be easy hold the blade so high even for a few minutes, let alone for an indefinite amount of time. She didn't know how long she could do it. "The blade is very heavy," she said, almost with an uncharacteristic grunt.

For a brief second, Llendo's former seriousness flashed back to the surface. "It'll only grow heavier."

The gravity of the words were lost on Lady Flyte, who was focused entirely on keeping the blade level. It was much harder than she had anticipated. She could feel the tendons in her arm start to burn as her arm quivered ever so slightly. "I can't do this for much longer," she said through clenched teeth.

"Ah, but the best speeches would only be halfway over by now. Have fortitude, my dear!"

Lady Flyte grimaced. It was no use. Her arm couldn't keep the blade steady: it was now visibly shaking as her arm trembled. She opened her hand, and the tanto spun downward, its blade penetrating the wooden floor. Lady Flyte gave a few deep breaths, but Nels Llendo seemed unimpressed. "We'll definitely have to work on your stamina..."

"Can't..." Lady Flyte breathed, but then took a moment to find her second wind. "... Can't you just teach me the basics?"

"And have you ill-prepared to seize the prestige of a perfect opening line? What kind of trainer would I be if I allowed that? Come, now, pick the blade back up. We're not done yet."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Lady Flyte said, not bothering to hide her frustration, "I need to rest. My arm aches."

Llendo tore the tanto out from the floor and handed it to Lady Flyte, "No, no, your arm does not yet ache, believe me. Now, let's try that exercise again. If you can hold the blade up for ten seconds longer than the last time, we can move on to the next, even more astonishing lesson."

Lady Flyte grudgingly received the tanto. Despite being lodged into the ground, it still had a flawless edge. "You counted how long I was holding the blade?"

"My lady, how could I not number every sweet moment I am allowed to spend with you?"

"And furthermore," continued Lady Flyte, not allowing Llendo's professions to derail her, "Now that I'm exhausted, how can I possibly hold the blade longer?"

"Everyone responds to incentives, my lady. Everyone. Now!" Llendo said with a clap of his hands, "Raise the blade."

Lady Flyte did so with little joy. Still, she lifted it with determination. She was motivated by the desire to be able to protect herself, true, but that wasn't all. A new desire had emerged within her in the last few minutes. Indeed, far more important than protecting her life, she found, was a stubborn determination to best Llendo's little test. Safety was one thing—the ability to wipe Llendo's smug grin off his face, however, was now far more important. Lady Flyte kept the blade level. This time, she told herself, she would not falter. She wouldn't give Llendo that pleasure.

* * *

Roliand paced through the cramped walkways of the ship. He didn't know how many days ago they had left Esroniet, but it must've been at least at least week or two. He also wasn't sure how much longer it was to Akavir (Beyte's invariable response was, "It depends on the winds"). Still, he was becoming anxious despite himself. Before Esroniet, Akavir seemed something far-off and unreal, and subsequently occupied little of his thoughts. Now, though, not unlike a child waiting anxiously for a holiday, the days seemed to go by slower and slower with a dense, static tension to them. Sometimes he would watch the eastern horizon from the deck, looking for the faintest hint of land. There was none yet. Akavir would wait for yet another day.

Still, all this waiting made Roliand, once again, want to actually be able to run or _do _something, not just sit around on the ship, waiting to disembark. Wandering down the now-familiar halls was about the only thing he could do. He had a hunk of bread in his hand, and was absent-mindedly tearing off pieces to eat as he passes by various doors: one to a storeroom, one to the Telvannis' bunkhouse, one to Beyte's cabin. As he passed the last one, though, he jumped in surprise. He heard a terrible, guttural scream come out from the room—Beyte's scream. Roliand immediately sprung to action and opened the door.

Beyte was standing, her hands on her desk, barely keeping herself propped up. Her eyes had widened and beads of sweat were gathering on her forehead. Her breathing was deep, to the point where it sounded pained. Roliand's face darkened with concern. "Beyte, what's wrong?"

"Go to the alchemical table," Beyte said, her normally weighed and thoughtful tone unusually rushed.

"I don't know how to brew potions—"

"Now," Beyte cut in. "I'll guide you, just hurry."

Roliand swiftly moved to a small table which had various alchemical apparatuses scattered on it, along with myriad reagents that Roliand didn't know the names of. Beyte's breathing became deeper and swifter. "Make a potion. A sprig of Frost Mirriam, a pinch of bonemeal, a little moon sugar, and a head of Nirnroot."

"Right," said Roliand, looking over the table. The bonemeal was easy enough to find, as was the moon sugar (he decided the question as to _why _Beyte had it was best asked another time). But Nirnroot? He had read about it in books, but never seen it. And did Frost Mirriam even grow in Cyrodiil? Was it a flower? Roliand moved his hands across the table as he tried to eliminate out the ingredients he knew of to narrow down the missing plants.

"Do you have them?" asked Beyte. Her voice had a faint hint of desperation to it. To hear that kind of tone come from the eternally collected Beyte Fyr made Roliand more nervous than he had been in some time.

"Uh... What's Frost Mirriam?"

"By Azura—It's a bundle of leaves. Should feel velvety to the touch."

Roliand moved his hand towards some green leaves. True enough, they fit the description. "Right, and the Nirnroot?"

Beyte groaned, at first in irritation, but then suddenly much louder as she was wracked by pain. "Four leaves attached to a large root."

Again, it was easy to find. Roliand immediately went to word grinding the ingredients with a mortar and pestle. His technique was sloppy. He had always fared poorly in his alchemical classes at the academy. What had his teacher said? Grind into a paste and then add heat, or add heat to create the paste? Roliand had spent that particular lesson writing notes to his rather comely partner. Beyte's expression grew more feverish. "Gods' blood! Hurry! Refine it through the alembic."

Roliand glanced at what he had created in the mortar. Was it sufficiently ground up? There was no time to think. Beyte's breathing continued to shallow. She clasped at her chest. Roliand gathered the ingredients and moved to the alembic. He set them in, and they started to move through the glass tubes, beginning the refining process. Normally this was a relatively short task, but as Roliand watched the broken leaves and pulverized roots slowly worm their way through the contraption, he could only think of Beyte. He glanced backwards. She had fallen to one knee. Her eyes were bloodshot and sickly gray veins were inching their way out from her temples. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, horrified.

"Focus on the solution," Beyte said nearly in a whisper, her voice having lost it's mania, and now simply weak, "Just focus."

The potion was starting to separate from the paste. It flowed through the alembic, down a tube towards an open bottle. The first drop started to condense on the lip of the glass. He had done it. Now it would be less than a minute until he could help Beyte. But no sooner than he had congratulated himself did he hear Beyte collapse. He looked back to see her on her hands and knees. Her breathing managed to be both rushed and shallow, and her arms trembled as she was losing the battle to hold up her own weight. "R-Roliand," she managed, "Focus—"

At that, a deep, choking gag. Beyte seized and collapsed to the ground. Her body began to shudder in a fit of epilepsy—Roliand could her the gagged sounds of her attempt to breathe, but her windpipe must've swollen shut. He tore himself away from the scene to look at the solution. Two-thirds of it had refined. Another drop was slowly—so painfully slowly—accumulating on the edge of the alembic. It fell into the vial.

There were still several drops to go. Beyte could no longer breathe. He had to make a decision.

Roliand grabbed the vial and moved towards Beyte. Another drop left the alembic and broke against the wood of the table. He kneeled down next to her and rolled her over onto her back. The light was leaving her eyes. Her tried to stable her jerking body as best he could with one hand and clenched the potion with the other. He opened her mouth and poured the potion into it. Most fell in, but he could see a few precious drops fall off target, or run out of the corner of her mouth.

Beyte continued to seize. Roliand suddenly felt very cold. "Come on, Beyte," he muttered, "Stay with me here."

Her motions began to die down. Her body gave a last spasm and grew still. Roliand couldn't see her chest moving. All he could hear was the creaking of the boat and the final drops of the solution he had failed to gather drip away into nothingness. His lips parted.

Then, like a diver who had been underwater til the breaking point, Beyte gave a tremendous gasp. Her eyes shot open in attention. Roliand gave a great sign in relief.

A few moment passed as Beyte caught her breath. Color was returning to her cheeks. She still looked ill, but she had definitely regained some of her composure. She gently closed her eyes. "The merchant told me in Esroniet that he was selling Frost Mirriam," she said, her voice still wavering, but now had returned to her usual tone, "He lied to me. To think that I would believe him and make such a simple mistake... I am ashamed, Roliand."

Roliand gave a nervous, but relieved, laugh. "Forget it, I'm just happy you're alive. You scared me half to death. Did you poison yourself or something?"

Beyte shook her limp head. "No. It's a disease. Do not worry yourself: it's not contagious. However, it is also not curable. That mixture keeps it in check."

"You're ill? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was never relevant," said Beyte. She tired to get back on her feet. She faltered, and Roliand moved to stabilize her. She scowled at her own weakness. As soon as strength had returned to her legs, she looked to the alchemy table and frowned. "You used far too many reagents while brewing," she noted, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

Roliand hadn't expected this. "I... I didn't..."

"Know? No, of course you didn't," said Beyte, her voice now resigned, "I'll just have to ration and make due with less. I should manage."

"That's not an extremely committed answer," Roliand said with a concerned expression.

Beyte shrugged. "That's because I'm not sure that my stocks are full enough to get by, hence why I wished to buy more in Esroniet. It would be untruthful to pretend that there is no risk of me running out. But we come ever-closer to Akavir by the hour. In the coming days, we will face many dangers. This will be but one of many."

Roliand didn't immediately reply. Beyte, noting the silence, gave a small smile. "Still, had you not arrived, Roliand, I likely would have died. That means, technically, you saved my life. While I presume that I will likely save you more often than you me in the future, it would be remiss of me not to commend you for your actions," she said, turning to look him in the eyes. "Thank you."

It wasn't exactly the thanks Roliand had expected, but he accepted it regardless. He offered her a smile of his own. "You're welcome, Beyte."

"Good," she said, returning her attention to the alchemical table. "Now we should really start cleaning this up. You scattered my ingredients when you were brewing the antidote. We'll need to return some semblance of order to this mess."

Roliand sighed good-naturedly. "Yes, Beyte..." Only she could say something like that to the person who, by her own admission, had just saved her life. Still, Beyte was Beyte. And if she was never going to change, the least Roliand could do was accept her mannerisms. After all, despite everything that had happened in the past few minutes, he had gotten to see her smile. That alone nearly made up for the whole ordeal.

* * *

According to the map, Akavir was merely days away. Arquen had tracked their progress, day by day, week by week. She had prepared extensively for this moment. Whatever maps of Akavir she could find, whatever histories she could salvage together, whatever dubious travelogues claimed to have ventured deep into the dragon land itself—she had read them all. Above all else, she was prepared.

Now, however, she had come to the end of her documentation and planning for the continent proper. She was satisfied with her readiness. There was no fear, only confidence tempered by her assassin's professionalism. Akavir she could conquer, that she was sure of. Indeed, if Ocato would uphold his end of their bargain (admittedly an uncertain variable), she would _have _to conquer Akavir, no matter the cost. She was not concerned with the east. She was concerned with her team.

Part of her wished that she could simply have selected members of the Brotherhood to accompany her, but she could recognize her allies' impressive abilities. Even so, she trusted none of them. First was the girl, Lucia. While she might be a vulnerability for Caecus, she was horribly naive. Keeping the girl alive would require Arquen to invest resources in her protection that could be far better spent elsewhere. And there was always the chance that Lucia was not the swooning weakling she seemed, and was even now in league with Caecus, plotting against the mission.

And then there was the necromancer, Auguste Flamet. Arquen had read some of his work once. While she wasn't knowledgeable enough in the black arts to comprehend it, even she could see that the techniques that he had pioneered decades ago had helped create the foundation for modern necromancy. She remembered well looking over those dark volumes, which were now already classics in fel mysticism. The fact that their illustrations were one of the few things that had made her blood run cold didn't make them less memorable, either. But now Flamet was pretending to be a gentle scholar, distancing himself from his past glory and genius. Why? The only person who would appreciate such a gesture would be Lucia... Perhaps...

But if only Flamet were the only wildcard. Ruma Camoran was also a mystery. Just two years ago, she was eager to summon Mehrunes Dagon onto this plane, and watch as the world was burned til even the ashes were consumed into nothingness. Now, for some unknowable reason, she was going to help Cyrodiil maintain its independence. Ocato had some sort of leverage over her, apparently. But the Mythic Dawn was destroyed. Her father had been killed at the hands of the Champion of Cyrodiil. And everything else in Tamriel, anything Ruma could possibly desire—well, she had hoped to destroy all of it. What could Ocato possibly have to control her? And what if Ruma changed her mind and went rogue once they were in Akavir?

Then Arquen heard something outside her door. Breathing. She glanced at the crack between the floor and the door and could make out the shadows of two feet. Hides-His-Heart. She still knew nothing about him. He spent his time in the shadows, obscured from her sight. Who he was, who he worked for, where he learned his abilities—she would give much just to learn any one of these facts. At the moment, he was simply a cypher. One can never trust a cypher.

She turned her attention away from the lizard. He enjoyed snooping around when he thought he wasn't noticed: he had done all this before. He always left, in time. She turned her attention back to the task at hand. It was an unlikely team she had been given, and one she wished that she had greater control over. Regardless, she would work with what she had.

Finally, she looked back to the map. The Akavir was mostly large swathes of blank, mysterious land. The southern and western coasts were charted enough, along with some Tsaesci territory that the Empire had occupied under Uriel V, but other than that, there was nothing certain. There apparently were some mountains in the northeast—Kamal territory, by the looks of it,—some plains to the west, and island chains to the south, but it was all guesswork. The cartographer had charted hearsay.

There was one city, though, that had a certain location. One stood out above all others. Pa' Tun o Kalaton, in the middle of the Ka Po'Tun's undoubtedly vast territory. In a flash, Arquen drew her knife. The Blade of Woe gleamed, and then was stabbed into the table, cutting deep into the tigerfolk's sacred capital.

She would find the Elder Scrolls. The hordes of the Ka Po'Tun could not stop her. Master Caecus could not stop her. Not even the Tiger-Dragon Emperor Tosh Raka could stop her. And even if the very gods of Akavir rose to put an end to the Stygian Vow, well, they would soon know the horrible void that was Sithis.

The stakes were too high for anything less.


	9. Arrival

"Land's been sighted."

The rest of the Stygian Vow broke off from whatever task had preoccupied them to look at Arquen, who had opened wide the hatch that lead outside. She almost made it sound prosaic: as though they had merely found yet another rocky island to restock at. Everyone knew that this time was different. Ruma Camoran stretched her fingers, readying them for spellcasting. Auguste Flamet closed his eyes, trying to seem relaxed on the surface, but deep creases in his forehead showed that he was less than serene. Hides-His-Heart licked his lips.

Lucia simply felt her heart race. They had arrived at Akavir at last. They were perhaps the first people from Tamriel to set foot on its shores since the Nerevarine. As much as Lucia hated this ship, she suddenly realized that she didn't want to leave it. Even if it was the Dark Brotherhood's, better the murderers you know than the devils you don't.

Ruma stood and swiftly walked up the stairs. Hides-His-Heart followed, for once with not hidden in the darkness. Even Flamet walked out before Lucia, his own gait slower and more guarded than the others'. Lucia felt anxiety almost physically burden the back of her head. The ship continued to creak and groan, almost urging her to leave. And so Lucia took her first hesitant steps towards the hatch and the outside world.

It was just before dawn, with only the faintest light breaking through the ashen gray clouds that covered the sky. At first, all Lucia could see was the mournful sky and the thin sheen of mist that covered the choppy seas. But then, in the distance, she could them. Mountains.

They were unlike the harsh peaks of her homeland. Rather than rough crags, they were green with thick mantles of foliage. Even their peaks were rounded at the top, although that was not to say they were simply large hills. There were still steep faces to them, but they seemed to have a rollingness to them that Lucia had never before seen. Only at that point, by being surprised at something as common as mountains, did Lucia really understand just how alien Akavir was. She glanced away, toward the west. There was nothing but mist. Tamriel was hundreds of miles behind them. Now, there was simply Akavir.

The _Death's Reach _changed its bearing and began sailing towards land. The mountains grew closer, although they were still mantled in fog. Ruma leaned on the railing to get a better view. "I don't see any harbor."

"We're not docking the ship," replied Arquen, "Remember, this is hostile land. I chose this stretch of coast precisely because it's so uninhabited. We'll likely avoid the eyes of Tosh Raka, if only for a little while."

They weren't docking? Lucia felt nervous. "Then what are we doing with the boat?" she said, unable to conceal her concern.

"I've told you, girl, the _Death's Reach _needs no crew. It will wait for us in the ocean until we have accomplished our task."

Flamet didn't seem relieved. "How long will that be, I wonder..."

There was no response. The ship grew ever closer to land. Lucia couldn't make out anything other than the rounded peaks of the Akaviri mountains. Perhaps that was for the best. Their enemies would not be waiting for them.

But then again, the disaster at Ionith made it seem as though the Akaviri could control the weather itself. And with such mastery over the continent, who was to say that they could not detect intruders?

Lucia didn't know. No one did. This was Akavir. It would keep its mysteries for some time.

They grew ever closer. Lucia could make out that most of the shoreline was rough and jagged, although there was a small stretch of smooth stone that they could moor on. Beyond the rocks, though, she noticed that there was nothing on the mountains but jungle. She figured that the group would disembark in the hinterlands, as far from civilization as they could. Then they would work their way inland. Still, while this lessened the chance they would be intercepted by the Akaviri, it increased their risks of being killed by beasts that prowled among the ancient trees. They had no idea what creatures lived in that viridian expanse. She had heard rumors, of course. There were tales of hungry ghosts, floating through the trees in search of warm life to gorge themselves with; tales of half-divine ogres that had reached a point of enlightenment that broke them free from Malacath; and above all, tales of dragons... Which of those creatures were myth, and which were lying in wait?

Ruma cracked her knuckles. Lucia could hear Flamet step up to her side. "Are you prepared?" he said in a soft voice.

She didn't respond. The ship began to close in on the sharp, angular shore. A fish skeleton the size of a horse had washed up on rocks, covered in seaweed that was blue as opposed to green. The _Death's Reach _came to a stop. Arquen stepped up to the bow. She reached to her side and drew a dangerously sharp dagger. With a fluid motion, she threw it towards land. The twirled through the air until it hit the ground, lodging itself firmly in a patch of soil.

In that manner, Tamriel greeted Akavir.

The gangplank rose and smashed into the rock. Arquen boldly moved forward. Her foot was the first to tread on the new continent. The rest of the Stygian Vow followed her. There were few surprises: Ruma still irritable even here, Flamet moving deliberately and cautiously, Hides-His-Heart gliding across towards the new world. That left only Lucia.

She stepped forward onto the gangplank, the liminal zone trapped between two worlds. Behind her was the bloodstained ship of assassins; in front of her was mysterious Akavir. She stopped for a moment. Again, she had no idea where she would rather be. But she knew her goal. Hesitantly, she took a few steps forward. She lifted her foot and set it on the rock. She had arrived.

Lucia had expected some sort of dramatic moment, perhaps. None came to her. The gangplank drew back into the ship, cutting her off from the only path back to Cyrodiil. A cool breeze blew by. Birds called out from the jungle. Up until now, Akavir seemed more like an idea than a place. Something possible, but not a reality. Now, she could see, hear, and feel the land about her. This was her new reality.

There was no time to waste. Arquen tore her dagger out from the ground and approached the jungle. As Lucia approached the dense, uninviting land, she reaffirmed that this was not the end. She had arrived at Akavir—her journey had just begun.

* * *

Roliand barged onto the deck, nearly stumbling over himself in his haste. Surely enough, he was greeted by the sight of rainbow-winged birds of paradise singing high above him, and thick jungles off the starboard side of the ship. As he looked about himself in surprise, he noticed Beyte standing near the railing, looking out over this newlyfound land. She turned her head as she heard him approach. "Good morning, Roliand," she said evenly.

He was less collected in his response. "Is this...? Have we arrived at...?"

"Akavir? Yes, this is it," responded Beyte, with a matter-of-factness normally reserved for describing the weather.

"But when...?" Roliand began, unsure of what he was exactly going with this, "I mean, I hoped that I could see us approach."

"We caught sight of land around four in the morning. You were asleep."

"Still," Roliand said, "You could have woken me up, at least."

Beyte arched one of her delicate brows. "There would have been little purpose. We could hardly make out what these islands were at first. For some time I doubted that they even were part of Akavir proper. It was nothing extraordinary: Life rarely is as dramatic as in stories."

There was a rustle from the trees as a more of the tropical birds flew out from the jungle. Roliand took a few steps to the railing of the ship and looked out onto the land before him. "Akavir..." he said softly, "We've really made it."

Roliand wasn't exactly sure what he expected to see, but the jungles didn't look too strange—some of the trees had oddly-shaped leaves, but the general look of it wouldn't be out of place near the Cyrodiil-Black Marsh boarder. Still, the birds were like nothing he had seen, and as he glanced at the ocean, he noted it kept the same rich azure color that it had near Esroniet. Besides a distant murky patch far off the bow, the water was so sparkling and fresh that he felt as though he could drink from it. He turned to Beyte, his eyes now filled once again with the spirit of adventure. "When do we land? Where?"

"I'm not yet sure," replied Beyte, lacking his enthusiasm, "I want to scout the shore for at least a day or two."

"A day?" Roliand repeated, "Are you serious? We've been cramped on this ship for weeks. I want to stretch my legs out."

Beyte gave him a humorless glance. "Then you can pace around the decks, if you so choose."

Roliand frowned, but didn't press the point. "So, do you think the natives will attack?"

"Natives?" replied Beyte. She sounded more condescending than surprised, and Roliand felt as though she were quizzing him.

"Well, the Akaviri, I mean. The Tsaesci live out in those, jungles, right? Are we ready to fight them?"

Beyte closed her eyes and gave a small, gentle shake of her head, "If I charted our course out correctly, we should be too far south to run across the Tsaesci. Furthermore, given the several islets you can see of the port bow of the ship, I think it's far more likely that we're in the territory of—"

A voice interrupted her from above, in the crow's nest. "Lady Fyr."

Roliand and Beyte looked up in unison. There was one of Telvanni scouts, who was glancing ahead with a furrowed brow. "What is it?" replied Beyte, her tone carrying a degree of concern.

The scout pointed forward. "Ahead of us, ma'am—what is that?"

Roliand and Beyte both walked to the very bow of the ship. Roliand noticed that the murky patch of water he had glanced before was now very close and quite large—perhaps fifty yards long. Still, it was impossible to make out what it was from here. He was no sailor, but he figured it could've been anything: debris, a large rock, or some dislodged sand. He glanced to Beyte, who still looked cautious. "It's too large to make out from my vantage point," she called out, "What do you see up there?"

"From up here, it almost looks like a... A person," the scout said, not quite believing what he had said.

"A person...?" Beyte mouthed silently as the boat sailed into the dark waters. And then, almost as if on cue, there was a great lurch as the vessel stopped as though it were snagged on a rock. Roliand nearly stumbled, but was able to stand on his feet. He glanced about himself.

After being on a moving boat for so long, the feeling of true stillness on the waves was unnerving. No one spoke. All Roliand could hear was the rustle of the sail in the wind, the creaking and groaning of the wood underneath them, and the sound of waves lapping against the paralyzed hull of the ship. A gust of wind blew, and Beyte moved her hand to wipe some hair from her eyes. The gust carried some sea spray with it that splashed harmlessly on Roliand's cheek. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed... Colder than the water just a few feet behind them. He looked to his companion. "Beyte..."

"Shh..." Beyte all but whispered. She then closed her eyes tightly and began moving her lips, although she made no sound. This did little to reassure Roliand, who looked back out over the waves. They were firmly in the middle of whatever was below them. He was too close to the surface to have an ideal vantage point on what it was, other than it was long, oblong, and just far enough under the rippling sea that it was impossible to make out. He looked to the sky. Silence. The beautiful birds were gone. That was curious. They were just there a moment ago.

Roliand looked back to the water. Below him, the dark shape moved. At first, Roliand thought that it was expanding somehow, but then, as he watched, he remembered the scout's words and something clicked in his head. A person. If that thing beneath them looked like a person from above, that would mean that it wasn't 'expanding' at all. All that would be moving would be the shadowy one's arms, as though it were preparing to embrace the ship...

A unwelcome realization washed over Roliand. He tossed a quick glance back to Beyte, who was still moving her mouth for some hidden reason. As Roliand was about to ask her again what this darkness was, he heard a noise come out from below the waves. It was difficult to make out, both quiet and drowned out from the din of the sea and sails. Roliand leaned over the railing and tried to listen again—somewhere, in the depths of the brine, the sound returned. It was faint, yet feminine. There was something plaintive about it, as the cry of a solitary gull always somehow seems lonely. For a fleeting second, the anxiety in Roliand's heart gave way to actual pity, stirred by the mournful call of the ocean.

Beyte's eyes shot open. "Below decks," she said, turning to the ship, "Now."

Roliand glanced to Beyte. "Wait, what?"

"No time," Beyte replied, already moving toward the hatch, "Get _moving, _Roliand!"

Roliand heard the scout scrambling above him. Then, the cry of the sea-thing sounded out once more, but it suddenly spiked, changing from a melancholic calling to a piercing wail. Roliand gasped and broke out into a run, his sight tunneling in on the hatch Beyte moved through. Things were happening outside his field of vision—there was a great thundering splash as something shot out from the ocean. Roliand saw something out of the corner of his eye—gray, mottled flesh and a black claw-nail—but only heard the sound of sundered, splintering wood above him. The scout gave out a wet scream. Roliand's blood ran cold, but instead of looking to aid the man, he kept running until he all but rolled into the hatch, slamming it shut behind him.

Beyte was waiting, and immediately broke into a quick gait. "Go to your cabin," she explained, "Gather anything that is absolutely necessary to the mission. You have half a minute—"

She was broken off by the sound of the cracking hull of the ship. Roliand glanced to the side and saw water leaking in through a breach in the wall, and deeper still in the vessel he could hear water pouring in. "Wait, what's—"

Roliand was cut off by the shriek again, but this time it was so clear, so _close, _as though the mouth of that thing was mere feet away, only separated from him by a flimsy veneer of oak, so easily shattered. The sound reverberated through him, shaking his very bones. Beyte grabbed his wrist violently, and again they were moving. "No time!" she repeated, "Meet me in my cabin in a minute!"

She vanished behind the door to her room. They were already at her cabin? The fear pumping through Roliand's temples made judging distance difficult. He made himself move and ran towards his own room. He opened the door, and as he turned in, he could again just barely make out an ebon, sickle-like blade slash through the end of the hallway, letting gallons of water burst through the quickly-dissolving ship.

He looked about his room. No time. He grabbed his steel battleaxe leaning against a nearby wall. He looked about. What else did he need?

More cracking sounds. Whatever else he owned, he would have to go without. He tore out from his room and back into the hallway. The water on the floor was up to his ankles. As he sloshed towards Beyte's cabin, the creature screamed again, the sound some horrible mixture of a widow wailing over the news of her husband's passing and the guttural howl of a troll. Roliand's mind nearly slipped into sheer instinct—flee, flee, flee!

Roliand burst into Beyte's room and looked around wildly. She had already gathered so many of her things into a satchel, and turned to look at him on his approach—her face had no panic, but was more grave than he had ever seen before. She handed him a potion. "Drink."

As he brought the vial to his lips, he nearly dropped it as the ship was wracked again. He stumbled, and could hear a bookshelf behind him topple over, complete with the shattering and cracking of the obscure instruments that lined it. Without wasting more time, he drank down the potion as quick as he could. He felt some change wash over him, but couldn't peg what it was. He looked to Beyte. "Now what?" he asked, his voice nearly cracking.

Beyte closed her pack and tied it tightly to his waist. "We wait. And if you are a man of faith, I would suggest that you pray."

"Wait?"

"Clasp my wrist, Roliand."

The two approached one another. Roliand grabbed Beyte's wrist as tightly as he could, and she reciprocated. "Do not let go," she said, her voice insistent.

There were sounds all around them—water churning and rising outside their door, wood snapping below their feet, even muffled screams of a damned shipman far down the hall. But while Roliand heard all this, all he looked at was Beyte, staring her in the eyes. They were firm and resolute: aware of danger, yet not succumbing to terror. Was this strength? Was it an act?

Could Beyte be as terrified he was?

Then, it happened. Roliand tripped as the floor beneath him ruptured. Beyte called out something, but before he could make sense of it they fell into the ice-cold waters below them. The pair was sucked down deeper and deeper by some vortex. Roliand's body was being flailed about in the water like a rag doll. He couldn't make sense of things, only sensations—the pain of being buffeted by debris, the ache of his body nearly being torn apart by the force of the currents, the water pouring into his mouth, and Beyte's unyielding grip, binding him to another person in the face of death.

He saw only swirls of color and bubbles, heard only the roar of water, and then—Oh! Something horrible—grey, mottled lips and red, bloody eyes! _It_ had seen him: they had made eye contact!

But a moment later, his body was whipped away again from the creature, into the waves and the current. His head was being twirled about so much he suddenly grew extremely dizzy, either out of fatigue or terror, and his grip on Beyte loosened. She, however, didn't let go.

It was only a few moments later when Roliand's grip went entirely slack. The water had spun him around so violently that he had no idea what was up or what was down. His mind grew cloudier and cloudier still as his head was thrown in all directions, just barely holding onto his neck. As consciousness slipped from him, the last thing he made out were Beyte's severe, firm features, staring at him. There was some expression on her face, but he couldn't make it out. He couldn't make anything out any more.

There, in the rage of the ocean, he whited out, his eyes still open, with only Beyte's delicate but strong grip keeping him tethered to Mundus.

* * *

Lady Lynette Flyte emerged from her ship into the foggy, early morning-dim. Normally she had paid less attention to her appearance while traveling by sea than she usually did. No more. She had spent hours preparing herself this morning. Septimia, a city once a seat of Imperial might, was not far now. This would be the first official, diplomatic contact between Akavir and Tamriel since the last weary soldiers departed from the continent from the very port they were sailing towards.

Technically, the two nations were still at war.

The Imperial Dragon rustled in the wind above their ship, showing that they were here on official purposes. Divines willing, this would be a diplomatic meeting. It would be unlikely that that Akaviri would attack an Imperial ambassador, but just in case that happened, Lancerow and Rudvich stood at attention, clad in full regalia. Both saluted Lady Flyte as she emerged out of the ship, but Lancerow nearly gave a start as he saw another figure the ship as well. He moved his hand to his sword's pommel. "Llendo?"

Nels Llendo exited the ship right behind Lady Flyte, offering the young knight a dazzling smile. "Good morning, Sir Lancerow. The weather certainly is fitting, isn't it?"

Lady Flyte predicted a spat, and moved to intervene. "Peace, Sir Lancerow," she said, approaching the bow of the ship, "I released Mr. Nendo from his cell this morning."

Rudvich nodded. "In case there is violence at the landing site."

"Precisely," replied Lady Flyte.

Lancerow didn't seem pleased, but neither he nor Llendo decided to continue their jabs. Not today. Not with Akavir now literally on the horizon. Lady Flyte looked over to Rudvich. "How much longer until we arrive in port?"

"Very soon, my lady. Look. You can see it out there."

Lady Flyte's eyes were not as sharp as her knight's, but after a half minute passed, far off shapes began to emerge from the fog. As their ship approached she could see two massive towers jutting out from the sea. She couldn't make out any details of them, but it was impossible to miss their roofs. They were sharp and angular at the top, only to gradually soften and even curve at their bottoms. It reminded her of prints she had once seen of Cloud Ruler Temple. Other than the roofs, she noticed somewhat smaller walls leading off in either direction from the each tower, no doubt fortifying the harbor. Between the two pillars of stone was a massive bronze chain, closely skirting the brackish seas. She took in a deep breath. Softly, she could hear Lancerow mutter, "Gods' blood…"

As they approached the towers, she heard a deep grinding noise of metal upon metal. She gave a jump, but she was in no danger. Not yet. The chain that ran between the two towers began to cinch, rolling back towards one of the massive fortresses. The Akaviri must've seen them, and permitted them to enter Septimia. With the sea gate now open, their ship sailed in slowly, entering the harbor. Every member of the contingent looked up at the mighty towers as they passed. This close, they could see numerous arrow-holes and even what seemed to be catapults hiding under the cover of the fog. As soon as the ship passed the towers, she could hear the grinding sound again. The chain was drawn back out. Now, there was no way to leave the harbor unless the Akaviri decided to allow it. Lancerow and Rudvich were thinking the same thing, and neither looked pleased. Llendo was oddly pensive, but Lady Flyte had the impression that there was something different on his mind.

For a fleeting moment the ship was lost again in the swirling mists, but ahead of them another set of walls loomed. Silhouettes jutted on top of them in the gloom, like shadows upon shadows. They were humanoids of some sorts, but too far away and in far too much fog for Lady Flyte to discern anything tangible about them... Other than the fact that they were staring directly at her. She couldn't even make out their heads, but she knew, somehow. The hair on her arms raised. A chill wind blew by, spraying the ship with a film of salty water, causing goosebumps to rise all over Lady Flyte's body.

There was a harbor before them. Lady Flyte couldn't make out how large it was, or even how many ships had weighed anchor there, hidden behind the veil. She could see, however, a single figure standing at the end of one of the docks, seemingly waiting for them. She could hear both Lancerow and Rudvich move, closing in at her sides. Their hands drifted to the hilts of their weapons. As the ship pulled in alongside the harbor, though, Lady Flyte discovered that to her surprise, the person waiting for them was not Tsaesci.

She was human.

There was a lurch as the ship came to a halt. Llendo dropped the gangplank, which Lady Flyte moved towards, her retainers still close at hand. This was altogether something that she did not anticipate. She had predicted a Tsaesci general or plenipotentiary, but the woman who stood before her was anything but. She was middle aged, and looked in most regards to be an Imperial. She was clad in tattered brown cloth that veered to being rags, and her _eyes…_ Lady Flyte had never seen anything like them before. There was something hollow about them, like the soulless brass of a Dwemer contraption. She could not make out guile, or cunning, or any emotion whatsoever. They just were.

Lady Flyte gave an elegant curtsy. "I am Lady Lynette Flyte, heir to the Viscounty of Anticlere. I have come to speak with the Tsaesci hierarchy by both the decree of High Chancellor Ocato and the grace of the Nine."

Several seconds passed in silence. The wind blew softly in Lady Flyte's ears, churning the thick fog that concealed Septimia, mere yards away. The other woman stared at the Lady Flyte with those empty eyes of hers. It was almost unnerving. Lady Flyte had negotiated many, many times in her life, and she could always discover something about a person by how their eyes shone. Even if they were hiding something, she could at least discern that they were keeping something hidden. Yet she did't have that feeling as she looked at the woman. As before, they eyes betrayed nothing. Nothing.

Then, the figure spoke. "Is-Lynette Flyte comes to this place," she said, "Wants to speak to the Lords."

Her words were spoken slowly, but in Cyrodiilic. She also seemed to be having great trouble making out the words—some was, no doubt, due to using an unfamiliar tongue. But there was something else to it. For a moment, it seemed to Lady Flyte that this woman was grappling with the very concept of her arrival, but she checked such groundless speculation. "… Yes, that would give me much pleasure."

Another moment passed, this one shorter. The figure turned around and took a step towards the walls. "Follows."

The group began to walk towards the gates of Septimia. Lady Flyte could still see the figures on the walls. She approached a point here she could almost make one out, but as soon as she squinted her eyes at it, it slithered back into the mists, out of her sight. Lancerow and Rudvich silently scanned the area around them for threats. Lady Flyte could hear Llendo chuckle behind her. "Talk about local flavor…"

Only Nels Llendo could jest at a time like this, but Lady Flyte had realized that his even the most flippant of his comments were always said for a reason. Perhaps he sought to reassure her. If so, he had failed, but she appreciated the sentiment. Dread was welling in her chest, to the point where it felt as though it was literally tugging at her heart. She couldn't allow that. She was the envoy of the Empire. She had to remain strong.

And yet the dread refused to vanish, and continued to squeeze at her core.

Before her loomed the gates of Septimia, which once bore the honor of being the first colony of the Imperial Province of Akavir. That was a very long time ago. In that fashion, Lady Fylte became the first person from Tamriel to set foot in Septimia for over a century and a half. She could but pray that this venture would be more successful than Uriel V's.

* * *

Once again, Master Caecus' visions were broken by the arrival of a visitor. This time, however, there was no knocking—the door to his room opened without any sort of greeting. Caecus, of course, knew that someone was coming. His ears were too sharp not to notice. What intrigued him though was that this person was unlike any other he had met in this palace that he was confined to. He could tell when he was approached by the Ka Po' Tun, with their firm, stocky steps, or when he was near the winding slitherings of the Tsaesci, but this one... This visitor had a very different gait. From the sound of it, it was almost...

… Human.

No, not exactly human. But close. _Very _closes. The visitor stopped at the litmus of his room. "Caecus."

It was a woman's voice, clear and confident. She pronounced his name flawlessly. Apparently, she was well versed in Tamrielic. Caecus remained unmoving with his back towards her. "I see that there are more than just Ka Po' Tun and Tsaesci supplicants in the court of Tosh Raka."

He could hear her shift her weight, but her stance was still relaxed. This was most unusual. In Pa'Tun o Kalaton, where formality and ceremony was everything, such a casual bearing was tantamount to sin. But then again, who was to say this woman was not a sinner? "That's right. This city is the center of the world. You'll find people of all civilized races worth mentioning... And even a few... Unique individuals such as myself."

"You claim to be unique among races?" replied Caecus, surprised by the woman's boast.

"Indeed I am. But, to be fair, it seems that more and more people like me, who belong to two species and none, emerge every day. But really, this is off the topic of why I've come to you, Caecus," she added, steering the conversation away from such matters, "I greet you warmly. I've been sent to help you adjust to your new homeland. I hope it's so far to your liking."

Caecus raised himself up onto his feet. "This isn't my homeland, adopted or no," he said, his voice authoritatively calm.

"Yes, Rengan mentioned you were quite the stubborn one," the woman responded, "For all the wisdom ascribed to you, I can't fathom your reasoning. The Infinite Court wishes to embrace you, Caecus. Tamriel aims to lynch you. If I were you, I'd think carefully about who you try to isolate."

Caecus seemed uninterested in her point, but not to the name dropping. "Teoh Rengan? I was not aware that anyone without sufficient prestige and standing was allowed to speak with a Celestial General."

"You'd be correct with that assumption. I must naturally have such presence in the court," replied the woman, "We will likely speak to him soon enough. I hope to present you to the court shortly, provided you swallow your arrogance before speaking with Tosh Raka."

"I shall address him as he deserves to be addressed," Caecus replied simply, "Lead on, Akaviri."

The woman motioned for Caecus to leave the room. He began to make for the door, but slowed before crossing the litmus. He reached his hand into a pouch, which was nearly empty. The only thing there was a single, well-worn gold coin. Being a moth priest, Master Caecus could not read, despite how much he desired to. Still, when he rubbed his thumb over the raised, golden letters on the coin, he could effectively 'read' it through touch. He had read this coin over and over again, for year upon year. The words were all but imprinted both on his finger as well as his soul.

_THE EMPIRE IS LAW_

_THE LAW IS SACRED_

This would be the last time he would read these words.

Caecus took the coin from his pouch and dropped it to the floor. It fell to the stone with a tinkling noise of metal-on-slate, but managed to land directly on its rim. He could hear it roll away from him, wobbling and meandering across the room, until it approached his guide. He could hear her lift her leg, and then a moment later, the sound of her stomping the ground. The sound of the gentle roll was suddenly replaced with a grating clash as the coin was smashed into the stone. Most people would've flinched at the horrid noise—neither individual in the room did.

Thus fell the Septim. Caecus turned his thoughts away from the coin and towards the door. He purged thoughts of his previous life from his mind. He did not need them now. Indeed, it was time for him to enter his new reality. It was time for him to be introduced to the Infinite Court.


	10. Courtly Intrigues

Teoh Rengan, the Supreme Celestial General of the North, Whose Commands Cause the Clouds to Scatter, walked past the pseudo-Kamal and the western barbarian in the halls of Tosh Raka's hallowed demesne to no small degree of disgust. When Rengan was younger, it would have been sin to let a Tsaesci slither its way across the metaled floors, let alone some creature from across the seas. But no, the scribes told him (all the while speaking down to him, to _him_), the times have changed and some platitudes along the lines of the tree that bends does not break. And it was, Rengan's opinions aside, the truth. Law and marriage allowed snake, monkey and demon alike to treat this palace like their summer-homes.

Had the Ka Po'Tun stayed true to the old ways, the ways that had made them strong, they would not need to literally lie with the Tsaesci. Their arms were bolder than any others' in Akavir. The land ought to have been unified with a tiger's roar, not a snake's sigh.

At least there were redeemable traits about the snakes, though. The western barbarians, _ma'en _in their tongue, were a sorry lot. They were small and feeble, standing at least two head shorter than a Ka Po'Tun, with considerably less muscle. Their eyes were large, watery, and white—this one apparently knew this shame and kept his eyes covered by a strip of common linen. _Ma'en _had noses that were large and dry, and their teeth were small, dull, and prone to rotting. Their bodies sprouted wiry black hairs, like wayward eyelashes, instead of a proper coat of fur. Teoh Rengan looked at the western barbarian with a mix of pity and revulsion, but still exchanged courtly greeting. Protocol must be observed, after all, even to a goblinoid.

Rengan advanced through the corridors. Perhaps he had become reactionary. Tosh Raka was his emperor and earthly deity, and if he saw fit to allow lesser creatures to sully his halls, it was the duty of Rengan to preserve the sacrilege.

What a state Pa'Tun o Kalaton had fallen to.

His rivals called him backwards thinking. "May they be cast into Oblivion," Rengan mouthed. And indeed, the new ways were seeping in even among the Lords of the Four Realms. The Supreme Celestial General of the South had already strengthened the flanks of his armies with light, Tang Mo levies to protect his elite on their sides, and the Supreme Celestial General of the East had openly stated that the Kamal would be welcome as shook troops in his ranks, once they had thawed. They were open minded. Not Teoh Rengan, though. The North was his, and he would not turn from the ancient stratagems. They worked for his honored predecessors, and they would work for him. Besides, North was the truest direction, and it had to be kept pure even if the rest of the compass melted into corruption.

Rengan passed a _merchant _of all things next, and to him, thankfully, there was not even an exchange of greetings. He might have to suffer the presence of lower castes, but at least he did not need to recognize their existence. For now, they were still not allowed to stand before the Serpent Fire Throne.

The western barbarian was, though. Why such a creature was allowed an audience with the Emperor of the Center was a mystery to Teoh Rengan, although he knew it involved scribes and their four-fold damned god-logic. When Tosh Raka demanded that he be brought the Elder Scrolls, Teoh Rengan had been bold enough to suggest that the Apocalypse Watchers were enough for Akavir, and that they did not need foreign diviners or their methods. The Emperor disagreed. "No, their ways are better." It was the only time he conceded that another people had a better method than the Ka Po'Tun—Many, now, were _equal, _but only the _ma'en _and their Elder Scrolls were _better. _Rengan still harbored doubts. If the foreigners had so great a knowledge of the future, why did they not use it to prepare against the Akaviri Tide?

_Ma'en, _snakes, monkeys, demons—it was altogether too much, Rengan reflected as he stopped before an elaborate door. If only that was where it ended. He clicked his great boots against the cold steel floor, announcing his presence. The man who waited within was tremendously important, but at the same time, a living ill-omen. Ka Po'Tun living alongside barbarians was one thing, but black blood pumping through tiger veins was quite another.

* * *

"My son, my son, my _beautiful _son, enter my room. I wish to look upon you."

The request did not surprise Yehonisan-Varesha. Ever since he crawled from the egg he had been told that he was the most perfect creature to emerge upon the world. This was no idle flattery: even the Apocalypse Watchers had told his mother that his diet had been sublime, and it was said that if ever a Watcher lied, the days allotted to this world would be reduced by one. Indeed, he was so glorious that his mother had beseeched his father to change his name to Tsaescence before his last molting, but that was deemed too great a heresy, and likely to scare the peasants besides. The Golden Prince rarely found a moment where he was not busy, but his duties to the state would have to wait. It was unbecoming to ignore the request of a parent. "Good afternoon, mother." His steady, even voice was as beautiful as his scales.

Kalista-Xiorian preferred to keep her chambers dimly lit. The small, flickering candles did little to reveal her room, but the Golden Prince knew it well enough. His scales reflected the fleeting light as he glided in. His mother's torso was reclining on a bed of peacock-feathers, as was her custom, but of course most of her body twined around the room, vanishing into the darkness or under a desk, only to emerge into sight a few feet away. She was not tensed in the least. She rarely was when her son had come to visit, so far away from the unyielding rigor of the court. "My darling, be still a moment. Let your mother take a good look at you."

The Golden Prince stood impassively. Kalista-Xiorian smiled. "This is a rare moment that my heart is at peace, by son. This land hasn't yet polluted you."

"I do not believe the land itself can pollute a person, mother," replied Yehonisan-Varesha.

His mother remained skeptical. "We're too high in the air, and surrounded by far too many tigerfolk. My heart longs for Tsaescera."

"My lord father would not appreciate such sentiments," replied the Golden Prince.

Kalista-Xiorian hissed and constricted her coils. The crack of splintering wood sounded out somewhere in the darkness. "Tosh Raka is _not _your father."

"By law and faith—"

"Let the tigers have their laws and gods! You are Tsaesci, scion to the most ancient and noble line on Mundus. That will never change, my son. Never."

If Yehonisan-Varesha disagreed with his mother, he didn't let himself show it. Her face softened. "But why do I yell at you, my perfect child? I summoned you to hear excellent news. Tosh Raka believes that we've sufficiently demonstrated our commitment to the joint throne, and has conceded that you might return home."

The Golden Prince's scales flashed, but his expression did not change. "That is most unusual."

Kalista-Xiorian knew her son always used few words, even when his mind was a whirlpool of emotions and thoughts. "Your tenure as a hostage has come to an end, although I must remain in the Vertical City. As happy as I am, I can't help but feel heartbroken. No mother should be separated from her son so."

"Why has he allowed this?" asked Yehonisan-Varesha, "The situation has not changed since last week. What does Tosh Raka stand to gain by allowing me passage to Tsaescera?"

"_Home,_" his mother insisted. "By allowing you passage _home. _As for that, I cannot answer. Either way, we must get you out of this wretched city. The hope of our race cannot remained caged in a Ka Po'Tun cell, even if they call it a palace."

"When will I be leaving?"

"Tomorrow, gods willing," replied Kalista-Xiorian "You're not to spend a moment longer here than you need to."

"Then I must beg me leave," Yehonisan-Varesha said with a nod of the head, deep enough to convey filial piety, "I ought to prepare and say my farewells to my courtiers and brother—"

"The half-breed is _not _your brother," his mother interjected sharply.

"By laws and faith—"

And so it went. Many of the conversations between the two had already been spoken.

Kalista-Xiorian had hoped to keep her son with her in that room for at least a little while longer, but she knew that such a desire was selfish. He had grown into an important prince, and had to see to the affairs of the state. She had perhaps another minute or two of motherly love before he left her chambers, leaving her once more to her thoughts among those dim, flickering candles.

Her child would return to his native, humid lands, but she would still be stuck here, in the clouds and the thin air, surrounded by the brutish, uncultured tigers and their vassals. She recognized the necessity of this arrangement, but she hated it. All of her people hated it. The tigers hated it. She would wager that her Lord Husband hated it, too, but Tosh Raka was difficult to read even for her.

She stirred, her coils shifting throughout the room. She, too, had duties and obligations.

The Imperial Consort called out for her slaves, who entered promptly. She had, of course, brought her own slaves. The Ka Po'Tun did not enslave individuals, even those of other species, but one of the four-hundred and eighteen provisions was that no Tsaesci could be prosecuted for bringing their own legal chattel into tiger lands. The slaves filed carrying massive platters covered with all sorts of wonderful things. There were thick sticks of heady incense burning in small ebony pots, fine cosmetics selected from her own personal stock back home, and crushed Lapis Lazuli powder to fend off her hunger during the approaching ceremony.

That was the thing she hated the most about the tigers-_ceremony. _Everything was a ceremony to them. Meeting a new client for a business arrangement? Ceremony. Taking tea in the afternoon among friends? Ceremony. Did it rain more days this week than it was dry? Well, you'd better believe there'd be at least one ceremony. Sometimes Kalista-Xiorian felt that she was losing her mind.

Still, the western barbarian would be interesting to see, she thought as her slaves made her beautiful and fed. And if she were to be drowned by the customs of the tigers, at least that foreigner would feel her pain.

* * *

Teoh Rengan opened the doors to the Prince of Fury's room after several seconds had passed. This was, technically, a breech of decorum. However, the Celestial General had known Zhal Raden since the later was a mewling cub, and he was well aware that if the prince was in one of his Furies, he would need someone to talk him out of it. Zhal Raden always needed someone to talk him off the mental cliff he stood at.

It was a pity. Zhal Raden's room had been fully furnished no less than four days ago, and it already was in shambles. A bureau furnished from fine teak from Mae Song Pearl Islands had been gutted, its wooden panels snapped into nothing worthier than firewood. Fine curtains of twelve varieties of silk had been torn to shreds under Raden's claws, so savage that even the moths would reject them. The most expensive piece of décor—a burnished ebony mirror, with a frame crafted half-a-world away from the blood of the dir-Kamal's Nemesis Mountain—was deeply scratched, and would need a craftsman to spend months polishing it again. In the center of the ruin stood Zhal Raden, panting. Teoh Rengan prostrated himself. "Hail, the Young Imperial Heir."

Raden clenched his fists. "Rengan. Why are you here?"

It was too early to stand. "Your father the Emperor requests your presence at court. He will soon hear the appeal of the western barbarian."

Zhal Raden made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. "Father wishes me to come to his court. I _spit _on is court!"

Raden roared and threw out a fist at a porcelain jar on a nearby table, shattering it. The sound of its destruction hung in the air for several moments. Raden was an unfortunate creature, and it was fortunate that Teoh Rengan's face was still pointed firmly at the ground, so he could not stare at his lord's warped features. Purity in all things was important, and in blood more than anything else. That is why the gods made it impossible for species to comingle and produce monstrous, unnatural descendants with other creatures.

Zhal Raden's existence flew in the face of the gods' decree. Rengan told himself that Raden's star-damned birth was the reason he could spout such wickedness, but it was sometimes difficult to truly believe it. "You are the heir to all of Akavir. It would not be fitting for you not to be at your father's side."

Raden gave another bark of laughter. "The snakes claim that the Golden Prince will be the heir. He is older than me, isn't he?"

"A Tsaesci will never sit on the Serpent-Fire Throne, Young Imperial Heir. You know this."

"Thing that could _never _happen are now occurring with a surprising frequency, Rengan," replied Zhal Raden, now slowly steading his breath. "Perhaps a Young Imperial Heir who dosen't latch to his father like a barnacle is just another development of this modern state."

"What you say would be an insult not just to your father, but to all the delegations," said Rengan, "It would weaken your claim in the eyes of our vassals. And the barbarians, too—the snakes and apes are watching, and even if the demons are frozen, Khon-Ma—"

Rengan realized what he had said a moment too late. Zhal Raden gave another great roar of rage and slammed his fist into a mahogany endtable. "_Do not speak her name!" _he bellowed, "_Never _speak her name to me. You know that, Rengan! You _know!"_

Teoh Rengan pressed his forehead to the ground, "I am not worthy of your forgiveness, Young Imperial Hier."

Raden was shaking and trembling in his fury, like a dam just about to burst. "No. No you are not. Get out of my sight before I turn my rage to you, Rengan. Now."

The time for formality had long since passed, and Teoh Rengan quickly departed from his sovereign's room. His face promptly twisted into a scowl. When he was younger and softer, he had tried hard to reach out to the Young Imperial Heir, when not one of the other Lords of Four Realms would. It was Teoh Rengan who taught Zhal Raden the twin arts of the bow and spear. It was Teoh Rengan who taught Zhal Raden the art and science of navigation. It was Teoh Rengan who taught Zhal Raden the proper ceremony in which to brew tea.

And yet the Supreme Celestial General knew that he was being foolish and sentimental. He attempted to show Zhal Raden how to ignite his Ka'Po Tun lineage, but it looked as though the entire endeavor was in vain. Bad blood, it seemed, was bad blood.

Still, he would need to return in an hour, after Raden's fury had simmered away and, gods willing, he could once again be reasoned with. The Prince of Fury did have has lucid moments. But Zhal Raden _had _to be at his father's side at all gatherings of the court. Mongrel and insane he may be, there was still tiger blood in him. That tiger blood would one day rule the continent and, gods willing, the world.

It must be so. Teoh Rengan would be damned if he ever let a snake rule him.


	11. The Thousand Monkey Isles

Roliand returned to consciousness gradually like the shipwrecked soul that he was, his waking mind wading waist-deep through the brackish black waters of dream. He was groggy. It felt as though his head were still swirling in the ocean. The last day's events were slowly coming back to him, in all their horror. It seemed unreal to think of—the destruction of the Telvanni ship, Beyte's desperate attempts to keep him alive, and that horrible creature. He had seen it for a fleeting moment, he was sure, but his memory had mercifully forgotten it. There are some things that are not good to remember. He read that once, in a book, but only now did he realized its truth.

He attempted to stretch his limbs out. Then a shock, and he realized to his surprise that he couldn't. His hands were bound together, as were his feet. And then he realized that he wasn't imagining that his head was bobbing up and down: it actually was. The day hadn't gotten better after all. Roliand reluctantly opened his eyes.

He saw dirt. Sometimes closer, sometimes farther, it seemed to move about as his head descended towards the ground and then back up into the air at a steady interval. Keeping his hands and feet in mind, Roliand knew he must be bound to some pole, and being carried down a path. He had been in Akavir for so little time, and yet he had already been captured by the natives—and then it dawned on him that there must be natives. Roliand looked up, and would've given a start, had he been able to move his body.

In front of him was a pack of creatures he had never seen before. They were humanoid in appearance, but only around three feet tall. Most strikingly, they were covered with hair—they grew a thick, wiry fur, with especially large fluffy tufts on the sides of their heads as well as their shoulders. They walked with loping, uneven gaits, sometimes falling on their knuckles, sometimes not. Roliand suddenly thought of the betmer, of Khajiit and Argonians, but he knew that these weren't any kinds of beast folk he met before. They were Akaviri.

As he jerked his head around, he could tell that there were lots of them—at least three dozen were in his range of vision, with more in front of and behind him, judging by the noise . They seemed comfortable in great packs, not caring about personal space as they bumped and prodded each other. One with particularly long silver chops nearly knocked over his brown furred neighbor. The brown creature did not take kindly to this slight and pushed the larger one, making a horrible howling sound. His teeth were long, sharp, and yellow. The silver beast roared in return, and suddenly there was the cry of so many around Roliand's head. Birds flew out from the trees, and just like that it was over—the combatants slunk off to other sides of the road, and not a drop of blood was shed.

Roliand sighed. "Mara preserve me."

"You are in Akavir, Roliand. It would be wiser to pray to local gods. They're more likely to hear you."

Roliand gasped and turned his head back as far as he could. She had survived! Her clothes were stained from the ocean, and her hair a mess, but she looked mostly unharmed. That neutral, unfazed expression she was so fond of hadn't even tarnished at all. She, like Roliand, was tied to a pole held horizontally to the ground, held at either end by one of the creatures that had captured them. Roliand broke into a broad smile. "Beyte!"

"Yes?" she replied.

"What—? No, never mind. Beyte, what happened to us? Where are we?"

Beyte had the strangest ability to seem utterly calm, even when bound and captured. "We are in Akavir, of course, but where precisely I cannot say. When the ship crashed, I passed out as well."

So they were certainly, definitively in Akavir. And they were already captured. Roliand's cheeks reddened from the shame of it. "And these things that captured us…?"

"Remember your education," replied Beyte, chidingly, "These are the monkeyfolk of Akavir, the Tang Mo."

Tang Mo. Roliand had indeed read about them, but he had always assumed they would be more… Words eluded him. Going by first impressions, Roliand had assumed that these creatures were Akavir's parallel to the goblins, but certainly not one of the four full-fledged civilizations. Were their howls speech? It mattered little: they were, to some degree, intelligent. Escape would not come easily. "What's the plan?" asked Roliand.

"The plan?"

"Well, yes. The plan. You know. To escape?"

Beyte raised one of her brows even as her head bobbed up and down. "There is no plan to escape, at least not currently. My hands are bound. I can do nothing."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. "We… Don't have a plan? What do you mean? What are we going to do?" Roliand replied, his voice betraying his nervousness.

"I presume that we will be carried deeper into the jungle by the Tang Mo. There is little agency on our part, Roliand."

"But what do they want to do with us?" Roliand replied. He wanted to move his hands to emphasize the point, but instead felt his wrists chafe against the rough, hempen rope, "What if they eat us?"

"Had they wished to eat us, don't you think they would have already?"

"But Beyte, that's not the point—"

"Branch," Beyte said swiftly, interrupting him.

Roliand thought a moment to respond, but a second later he felt a strike to his temple. Bitter leaves forced their way into his mouth, and branches scratched as his temple, with one almost clipping his eye. He coughed, but the Tang Mo didn't slow down their pace. He glanced at Beyte, who returned a rather unconcerned glance. "You were hit by a branch."

Roliand scowled, "I could tell."

Beyte gave a disapproving frown. "There's no reason to become cross, Roliand."

There were very good reasons to be cross, but after a moment of thought Roliand decided not to press the point. "So what are we going to do? Just be carried into the jungle?"

"Again, Roliand, we can do nothing. All that we can do it wait. An opportunity will rise, in time."

Roliand hoped the opportunity would show itself within the hour. It did not.

The pair were carried deeper and deeper into the jungles, following an unpaved but much-tread road. The tight ropes scratched at Roliand's wrists, and the constant bobbing gave him both a headache and an upset stomach. The canopy above them grew denser and denser as they progressed. Soon, sunlight barely filtered down upon them.

"The Long Dusk," said Beyte, breaking a long silence.

"What do you mean?" asked Roliand.

"The Tsaesci wrote that the Tang Mo lands were those of the Long Dusk. It's literal. It seems dark because the sunlight is stopped by the leaves." Beyte gave distant smile, "I had assumed it was something metaphysical."

Roliand didn't respond. He was thirsty, sore, and tired—none of those endeared him to Beyte's academic musings.

The tree trunks were large. Roliand had never seen the great boughs of Valenwood in anything other than the faded prints in the academy's library, so plants of this size were a wonder to him (or, perhaps, would have been a wonder had he felt less sullen). Roliand figured that each tree was a least two horse-lengths in diameter, and perhaps as tall as the guard towers in the Imperial City. Many had crudely hewn tables pressed against the trunks. Little offering were left there: berries, nuts, and animal bones, mostly, along with some glass. As the Tang Mo troop passed these sites, at least one would break off from the pack and leave something upon the table.

Superstition. Roliand looked to Beyte to see if the eternal scholar had some wisdom to relay to him, but she remained quiet, watching the little rituals. Her eyes were still so bright and curious. Roliand hung his head.

Time passed. From time to time the troop would pass over a stream or river, the banks linked together by arching, wooden bridges. The bridges were not embellished, but admittedly were well made. Roliand knew something of carpentry, and was certain that primitive creatures couldn't have built those kind of structures without aid. Maybe the Tang Mo kidnapped tradespeople for skilled labor. It was possible.

It was a far better alternative than being eaten.

Each time the troop crossed a stream the silvery-furred Tang Mo would make a howl, and some of his followers would echo him. This intrigued Beyte to no end, but Roliand tried his hardest to tune it out.

Roliand couldn't remember when he first fell asleep. It was hard to keep track of time in the jungle, where the sun always seemed elsewhere. He nodded off while he was being carried, and awoke to find himself not bobbing. He was still outside, but couldn't make out anything other than the darkness around him. He tired to move his arms—no good. His wrists were still bound. Maybe Beyte was out there, in the blackness. He couldn't tell, and wasn't about to yell.

There was a buzzing next to his head. A bug landed on his ear and stepped about. Roliand shook his head and the pest flew off.

He felt like a mule. So much for his adventures in Akavir.

When Roliand awoke it was once again the Long Dusk, and he was once again being carried. He looked to his right. Beyte wasn't there: only the sauntering Tang Mo. Roliand took a sharp breath. He tried to look ahead or behind himself, but he couldn't move his head well enough to get a good sight. He tried to call out her name, but halfway through the first syllable a Tang Mo pounced towards his head and gnashed his teeth.

Some sweat beaded on the tip of Roliand's nose. Maybe Beyte was safe somewhere ahead or behind him. Or maybe the Tang Mo had feasted upon her for dinner.

The troop passed another tree, and a Tang Mo scampered off to place a little bone on the table. Was it from a bird or Beyte's arm? Roliand was too far away to get a good look at it.

Then he remembered. That one night on the ship, so many days ago, where Beyte had her attack and seizure. Roliand had given her the strange potion in time, but how often did she need it? And if she were alive, how long could she hold out without a dose?

Roliand tried to call out her name again, only to be silenced by the Tang Mo with those large, curved teeth. Some spittle landed on Roliand's cheeks. It smelled like rotting raspberries.

The troop crossed another river and barked to commemorate the event. Roliand still had no clue where they were headed, or even how long they had been wandering in the jungle. But even if he couldn't tell what hour it was in this Long Dusk, he had the feeling that Beyte could.

He prayed that the count would be short enough for her.


End file.
